The Prophecy
by LadyTP
Summary: Prophecies of market charlatans might entertain idiots who have their heads full of dreams, but Sandor knows better. Love, lands, family. Why not as well tell him that he will soon sprout wings and fly into the sun, as longs as she is at it? Sandor gets told his destiny by an old crone, but struggles to accept it for truth. AU from the books.
1. PROLOGUE - The Old Crone

**Author's Notes: **This is just a light holiday dribble...trying something new...writing it as the spirit moves me... aiming to keep it short and sweet...

The inspiration is my fascination of how unlikely and improbable the outcome of many SanSan fics is when viewed early on in their story. The prophecy giving Sandor something to think about as the events unfold...

This hasn't been beta'ed so apologies for my mistreatment of prepositions and other grammatical features. _Mea culpa!_

**Summary:** _Sandor has just about had enough and is about to open his mouth and tell her so. Love and lordship – what next? Those stories might entertain idiots who have their heads full of dreams, but he knows better. _

* * *

**PROLOGUE - THE OLD CRONE**

_**Sandor**_

Sandor sways to avoid grasping hands of the wizened old woman, but her gnarly fingers wind around his arm as roots of a tree. Had it been a man, the attacker would be sprawling on the floor, but for a shrivelled crone Sandor stays his hand.

"A Northerner! A strong one, with a strong spirit…and clear, the purest I have seen for a long, long time," she drones with a raspy voice. "Come, my son, and let me have a look at you."

Irritated, Sandor shakes himself loose, but follows her just the same. Slightly drunk, his soul black and brooding, he doesn't really care where he goes. His whole being protests about being back in Casterly Rock. It is the first time since he left it for the capital with his mistress, and it is one time too many.

The canvas flap of the tent opens into a simply furnished chamber filled with strange wall hangings, carvings and a wooden table littered with small bones – birds, from the look of them. A pitch-black raven sits next to them, craning its neck towards Sandor as he enters.

"Fate? Fate?" it crows, its voice sounding disturbingly as that of a man.

"Shush, Stranger. The man bears a great destiny within him, I can feel it in my bones. Behave yourself with this one." Tilt of her speech speaks of the North, its croakiness of the many summers and winters she has seen, and yet the tone is surprisingly spirited for such an old hag.

_Stranger?_ Sandor finds it oddly fascinating. He cares not for gods or their servants; even Warrior leaves him cold. But Stranger, the most terrifying deity of the Seven, feels to him sometimes like an old friend.

He takes a long swig from his wineskin, strong liquid flowing down his throat bringing the familiar relief with it. Just a few more days and he can leave this cursed place with Cersei and her mewling babe Prince Joffrey. The ancient stronghold of Lannisters means nothing to him but a place where he grew strong and found his place in the world. What Gregor started, was completed here; an idealistic young boy turned to a weapon to be wielded by his masters.

He loathes the place and the memories it brings back, too bitter to endure, opening festering sores of the past. In King's Landing he is a new man with the fierce reputation of the Hound, but here many still remember the ugly young boy whose tormenting was a pastime for some – until the day he grew bigger than them and broke their bones and kicked their teeth out of their mouths. Yet it never brought him pleasure, and to avoid old tormentors and new quarrels he stumbles into this tent when he sees them coming.

Sandor has no intentions to allow some market charlatan to tell him his destiny, but as he now has entered and is in no hurry to go anywhere, he resolves that this might be as good as any place to drink his fill and while some time away.

So he slams himself down on a small stool and throws the wineskin on the table. The old woman sits next to him, and only then Sandor notices the rheumy eyes covered by a white film. Blind as a bat, she is.

The old hag extends her bony fingers towards him and grabs his arm again. He allows her.

"Strong one, indeed. And loyal, I see, with a heart of a faithful hound."

Sandor sneers. _A hound?_ She must not be quite as blind as she appears, to recognise him and his sigil. His suspicions seem to be confirmed as the crone lifts a frail hand on her throat and shrieks.

"Fire?! I see that in you, my son. The fire has hurt you…but the fire will also heal you."

_How stupid she thinks I am - who in the bloody hells wouldn't see it? _Taking a closer look at her eyes he hesitates. The pupils are cloudy and she can't follow him with her eyes. Mayhap she has heard of him and was warned about his approach? Yet why would she have babbled about him being a Northerner?

"I was born and bred in the Westerlands, not in the North. As for the fire, what the hells are you talking about, you old witch? There is no fire in this world that will get near me." _Again._

"Aye, your mortal body may have grown here, but your soul is of the North. I can tell; I am from beyond the Wall myself. I know these things, have since I was but a babe and taken across to the southern lands…" the old woman mutters. "The fire is no ordinary blaze, though I see some of that too. Nay, it is the fire in your soul, and in the soul of the one who will heal you, and…" she squeezes her eyes close and continues with a surprised tone "…and the fire in her hair."

_Fucking hells, that's what I need; a woman with her hair on fire! _Sandor removes his arm from her reach and looks around, bored. He might as well find his way back to the guest rooms and leave this crazy talk.

"You will find a great love; a love so strong it will change the fate of the realm. Yet your journey will not be easy; you have to fight for your love, as your love will fight for you. Three times you step up and rescue her, and she steps up three times to save you." The woman has lapsed into a trance-like state and doesn't seem to care that Sandor pulls his stool back.

"The lord of vast lands you shall be, the lands so great that it takes a rider three days to travel from one end to another."

Sandor has just about had enough and is about to open his mouth and tell her so. _Love and lordship – what next?_ Those stories might entertain idiots who have their heads full of dreams, but he knows better. No woman as much as looks at him unless he pays them, and even then they prefer to open their legs rather than their eyes. And lordship – bah! Gregor is the eldest, and should he by some miracle be struck down before Sandor, Clegane lands are still small and unimportant.

Before he gets to voice his displeasure, the old woman continues with a high-pitched voice. She has opened her eyes and stares straight ahead, unseeing. Just a shrivelled old thing she is, with skin like dry parchment and bones frail as twigs, and yet in this moment she commands with her presence and even the formidable warrior towering above her is silenced by her authority.

"Two sons and two daughters will come from your seed. One son the new lord to your people, the other an explorer of faraway lands, He will discover new and mysterious worlds and his sigil is that of a wolfhound. One daughter the queen of many kingdoms, loved by her subjects, another a fierce warrior and a wise-woman. Her sigil is a pretty bird."

The raven jumps on the table and stares at Sandor with its dark, beady eyes. It unnerves him; it is almost as if the old hag stares at him through the eyes of the bird. What he hears isn't a surprise; all fortune-tellers give honeyed words to their unsuspecting victims, telling them about loves and fame and riches. Nobody pays good coin to hear that they are going to die in a ditch or taken by fever, or that their scrawny wives will be raped by invaders and the skulls of their snotty-nosed children will be bashed in. Yet that is the reality and the way of the world; Sandor has seen it enough times to know it to be true.

For him, a poxy whore and eventually a sword in his belly are what he can expect. A _better_ class whore, perhaps, if Cersei's plans come into fruition and he becomes the shield of the future king. Yet great loves or lands will never be within his reach. And that suits Sandor just fine - only fools want more and let their desires eat away their soul.

"What about gold?" he grumbles just the same, to goad the old woman further. "You forgot to tell about my riches and treasures."

She wrinkles her nose, a sharp beak in a long face. Her hair might have once been as black as raven's wings, but now it is grey, almost white.

"I see no gold, not much. You will amass riches of the land; crops from fields, furs from forests, fish from rivers – you and your family will not go wanting."

Sandor snorts. He has almost started to enjoy the fortune-teller's tale and seeing how far she will take it. Oh well, no gold then. _What a shame, could have used some. _He chuckles and stands up, trying to ignore the ravens gawking while reaching for his purse. No matter that the words are rubbish, the old woman looks like she could use some copper. She has deserved it with her prophecy of all the things he will get; love, lands, family. Why not as well tell him that he will soon sprout wings and fly into the sun, as longs as she is at it? The sound of coins alerts the crone and she raises her head, her movements again echoing those of the raven.

"Oh, waste not your coin on me, my lord. I didn't tell this for gain but because I had to. I can see it all in front of me, the story that will be told for thousands of years to come. The hound that came to the North..." She opens her mouth wide and for a moment Sandor is taken aback by her toothless grin before he realises that she is _smiling_. Although he knows that the woman is barking mad, he feels a cold shiver down his spine at her words.

"Only promise me one thing, my lord; be kind to folk beyond the Wall. My father's people they are, and if you are true to them, they will be true to you."

"Aye, sure. I will give them lands and honours, feed them with mead and sweets." His tone is mocking.

"You don't have faith in me, I see that. Yet you shall live through it all, indeed you shall. Remember then the old woman who told you this."

Sandor shrugs his shoulders. The old wildling is crazier than he thought, not accepting good coin. It is nothing to him though. He takes the wineskin and drains the few remaining drops into his mouth before crunching it in his fists and throwing it into the corner of the tent. Grunting he takes his leave, glancing at the raven.

"Fate!" the bird squawks as he walks away. "Fate!"

"Watch out for the woman kissed by fire!" shouts the fortune-teller, her last words almost drowning in the noise of the crowd that hits him when he leaves the tent.

Sandor doesn't waste time in locating more wine; the famous Hound is served swiftly, if not willingly. By the time he falls on his pallet and starts snoring, he has forgotten all about the crazy old woman and her mad ramblings.


	2. The Girl Whose Name He Knew

**Author's Notes: **Thank you so much to you all for your kind comments! I wanted to try something slightly different here, maybe a bit darker, not too long, but we'll see how it goes. On the other hand, one may wonder what's the point of writing more as I already gave the story away in the first chapter, ha ha!

**Summary: **_After they had fucked, she used to hold his head on her lap and caress his hair and his face – the good side - silently. He used to nuzzle his nose between her thighs and feel their warmth, smell her scent and let his mind empty of all matters but that moment._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor grunts and for a briefest moment radiant explosions from deep within his core transport him to another world filled with sensations, colours, smells and feels. He has been there before and although he is unlikely to admit it even to himself, he _wants_ more of it – but as always, the moment is fleeting and soon he is back in a poorly-lit room on the Street of Silk.

He pulls away and lightly slaps the plump behind of a woman kneeling in front of him. Being a consummate professional she knows the sign and climbs out of the bed towards a wash basin. She takes a cloth and starts to clean herself, stopping her movements for a moment to wait for Sandor's seed to dribble down. She doesn't look at her client but hums quietly to herself, almost as if already forgotten the big man in the room.

She is a better sort of a whore; young, clean, just the right amount of flesh around her bones – and she has a red hair.

Sandor did thoroughly dismiss the drivel spewed by the old crone in Casterly Rock that day many years ago, but inexplicably one thing has stayed in his head. He doesn't set much store on women, but whenever his blood is up and he goes to find one, his eyes are drawn to those with a head the colour of fire. Young or old, skinny or fat, bold or shy – none of that matters but if there is a red-head among them, he chooses her. The other men in the keep eventually notice that and without a word move out of the way even if they have chosen one before him. Only a fool will stand between the Hound and what he wants.

Sandor takes a rag and wipes himself clean, then pulls his breeches up and ties them. The tension in his thighs is still there, his chest heaving from the exertion. The need as old as mankind has been fulfilled once more, and having satisfied the call of his blood he is settled once again. A wave of his hand sends the woman away and Sandor throws himself on his back on the bed, crossing his hands behind his head. He closes his eyes and tries to hold on to a feeling of utter satisfaction and release for a little while longer.

He doesn't know her name and he doesn't care. Not anymore.

* * *

There was a whore once – a girl more than a woman – whose name he learned. She was from the North, and whether unconsciously because of this or simply because she was a comely lass _and_ a red-head, she caught his attention. Although words were never said to that effect, whenever he went to the pleasure house she worked in, she came to him, even disentangling herself from a previous client if needed. She was bold, she was honest and once she learned to relax in his company – not an easy feat to any woman – she was funny.

Sandor's mind wanders back to that girl. Strange, he hasn't thought of her for a long time, suppressing her memory from his mind like a useless thing it is.

Blue eyes, slightly upturned nose, sensuous mouth. Without realising it at first, Sandor started to visit her regularly. He could afford it; being a prince's shield paid well. As a matter of fact, he started to look forward to those visits in a way he hadn't felt about anything else before. With her, even though the talk was of mundane matters and he was careful not to reveal too much of himself, he could forget the Hound for a moment and be Sandor instead. After they had fucked, she used to hold his head on her lap and caress his hair and his face – the good side - silently. He used to nuzzle his nose between her thighs and feel their warmth, smell her scent and let his mind empty of all matters but that moment.

Gods, he even found himself once or twice thinking what it would be like to take her away from that place. He might set her up on a small house in the city and visit her not only for a fuck but for…what? Company?

Yet one day she wasn't there when he came for her. Sandor swallowed his disappointment and settled for wine instead, despite the owner parading a string of scantily-clad women in front of him. He didn't reveal what was the matter; it was not in him to share it with anyone. Soon the owner gave up and let him brood in the anteroom, emptying a flagon after a flagon of wine at the house's excessive prices.

She wasn't there the next time either, and then he had to ask.

"Poor girl, that one!" babbled one of the matrons who had worked in the house for longest. Her eyes expressed genuine concern, and perhaps a bit of surprise that this well-known warrior, rumoured to be cold and heartless, should ask after an insignificant pleasure woman.

"A customer treated her roughly – she didn't want to do what he demanded. Broke her nose, cut deep slashes on her face and almost cost her one eye. Not a pretty sight, she wasn't."

Sandor's fists clenched and a familiar feeling of fury that was yet different from before, took over him. From between gritted teeth he asked what happened next.

"The owner had to send her away, she wasn't good for the business. She joined a caravan of merchants going to the North. She was still good enough to pay her fare to them – on a lonely road and in darkness a comely face is not necessary."

Cold hate and burning anger took Sandor in their grips then and he had to look away not to expose the depth of his emotions to the woman who was eyeing him curiously. He hated many things and many people, and in the heat of a battle he threw his hatred towards his opponent and fed from it, letting it fill his body with unsurpassed strength. Mayhap because of that he was victorious – always.

Yet this was different. The unknown assailant had not hurt him or his masters directly. The matter was nothing to him; the girl was not his kin nor his woman, but a common whore. They had no agreement between each other; no promises, no oaths, just cold coins passing hands. And yet…

Sandor squeezed some more information about the client and went on his way. The following morning a mutilated corpse with a broken nose, deep gashes on his face, a broken eye socket and a gaping wound in his belly was found in front of the pleasure house. The owner was questioned but nobody had seen anything. The body turned out not to be anyone important, and soon the incident was forgotten.

Less was known about the caravan of merchants the girl might have gone away with, and Sandor couldn't leave his duties to chase the roads to the north after a _woman_. He didn't want to. He didn't _want_ _to_ want. And soon the girl was forgotten by all but the Hound.

From that day forward he never asked whores their names.

* * *

Sandor shifts, knowing he has to leave soon. The whole bloody court is preparing to travel to the North, to seek a new Hand of the King to replace the one who just died. Why the whole court has to go is beyond him, but nobody asks his opinion anyway. Where Joffrey goes, he goes, and so on the morrow he will saddle his mount and start a long trek towards the ends of the realm.

He stretches his body, almost hitting the wall in the process in the bed too small for his long frame. Then he gets up, absentmindedly scratches his beard and flexes his muscles one more time. He is not keen to travel, but neither has he any vested interest to stay in the city. There is absolutely nothing he expects from this trip but long days of riding, gaping peasants on the roadside and some high and mighty lord and his get to escort back to the capital. He goes where he is told to go, does what he is told to do – life is easier that way.


	3. The Little Bird

**Summary: **_Her fingers touch him and it is as if a jolt of lightning goes through his body. He almost stops, looking down at the wide-eyed girl. What the fuck? She stares back at him with no fear of him in her eyes. She has seen too much to be bothered by his ugly face any more, he gathers, and averts his own gaze._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

For the longest time Sandor doesn't even register the girl properly, nor her deep auburn head of hair. When he eventually does, it is with annoyance and exasperation. How someone can be so naive and so fucking _innocent_ in this court of snakes and cockroaches? He sees her eyes light up at the sight of her bloody prince, and her cheeks flush at excitement of the courtly splendour; knights prancing and minstrels singing. He has a strange urge to quash all that in her and to teach her that life is not a bloody song.

She shuts up prettily when the Hound tells her the truth about knights and their honour, and after her father's head is cut off his body, she becomes quieter still. _Little bird_, he calls her as a slight, for he sees her as a pretty little talking bird who repeats all the pretty little words her gullible family taught her, mistakenly thinking that chirping nonsense will help her to survive in this world. Seeing the caged bird losing her song should make Sandor satisfied, but her downcast gaze and lowered head makes him more frustrated still. Why, he can't understand.

He has no time for the traitor's daughter though, no matter that he knows for true that the only crime Lord Eddard was guilty of was to be too honourable. Instead, Sandor follows with suppressed concern his young charge's increasing madness. With King Robert gone and Cersei being the dangerously indulging mother she is, the boy is left to run loose with no restraints. Sandor knows what he can do to those under his power - innocent animals and defenceless servants - and seeing his attention turn to the Stark girl, he knows in his guts what is about to follow.

* * *

Sandor realises that the girl is something more than her placid appearance and courtly manners may suggest when he saves her for the first time – from herself.

The flash of hatred so open and raw in her eyes that he recognises it as an echo of his own soul, alerts him. Without knowing whom he really wants to save, he steps between his master and the girl at the battlements. A few more seconds and she would have pushed Joffrey to the depths, mayhap following him herself. If not, she would have been taken to the dungeons and then to the executor's block by the orders of the furious mother lioness.

She may not know it herself, but the Hound just saved her life. Why he did it, is not as simple to decipher. He had been fond of Joffrey once, in his own way, when the boy had been unspoiled and innocent. Later Robert's negligence and Cersei's obsessive love changed the prince, and eventually Sandor gave up on him, as he had done on so many things before. He does his duty by the king and follows his orders, but whether his mind was really focussed on saving Joffrey's life or that of the girl that day, he couldn't say – not that he brooded on such matters.

* * *

The second time Sandor saves her, he thinks nothing of it at first. Only seeing Lollys Stokeworth's bruised and bloodied form a cold fist squeezes his innards when he fully grasps what would have fallen on the girl had he not gone back for her. Still, it was not much of a trouble for the Hound; a few poxy peasants, a minor scuffle, a few cut limbs, and he rides back to the keep holding her in front of him in the saddle. She is stiff from the shock but she doesn't cry, only presses herself against him, her hands trying to find purchase in his armour. Meeting only hard steel they sneak their way around his neck, exposed after he removed his helmet. Her fingers touch him and it is as if a jolt of lightning goes through his body. He almost stops, looking down at the wide-eyed girl. _What the fuck?_ She stares back at him with no fear of him in her eyes. She has seen too much to be bothered by his ugly face any more, he gathers, and averts his own gaze.

This time she _knows_ and comes to him afterwards, wanting to thank him. He laughs at her and sends her away. He is not a fucking _hero_, and she better know it.

* * *

Once the threat of Stannis Baratheon's approaching army becomes evident, Queen Cersei does the inevitable; she calls off her son's betrothal with the daughter of the house on the losing side of the war. Margaery Tyrell brings with her the might and power of the Reach, and as much as the queen hates to see another family behind the power of the throne, she reluctantly accepts it.

Sandor can read Joffrey as an open book – not for nothing he has spent his time with the boy since he was but a babe. He sees the boy-king viewing approvingly his new bride who, confident of her position due to strength of her father's army, succeeds in wrapping him around her delicate little finger. Sandor also sees Joffrey's scrutiny falling on his previous betrothed. Finally free of the binds of propriety, there is a combination of hate and lust in his eyes. Joffrey hates her for the humiliations caused by her brother's successes in battles, but desires her for her grace and womanly charms.

Sandor has seen the pattern before and can predict what will follow. Joffrey wants something, wishes to play with it and destroy what attracted him in the first place - and once he has had his fun, he throws it away without care as to where it lands. Many of the Hound's peers in the Kingsguard covet the disgraced Stark girl, and encouraged by the humiliating treatment heaped upon her, wait for their turn in case of such eventuality. A man's lust can be turned on by many things, and for some beating a young girl and cruelly exposing her semi-nakedness to their greedy eyes is enough to ignite them. Many a night talk turns to vile things the men would like to do to her – once Joffrey has tossed her aside.

Sandor feels bile rising in his throat for such talk but he keeps his silence. Only late at night in the silence of his chamber he allows his mind wander to the delicate creature whose spirit, despite all that has happened to her, has not yet broken. For the first time he thinks of her as someone who just _might_ be within his reach; before she has been much too far above him. If Joffrey spoils her and casts her aside, the Hound knows he could claim her before anyone else. _The girl with a fire in her hair._

And he feels it; the tug inside him, something wanting to come through from the secret corners of his soul, ready to crumble his defences. Yet he hardens his heart and refuses to heed it. The fate of the Stark girl is nothing to him, he tells himself, and turns angrily on his pallet, determined to shut her out of his mind.

* * *

The Hound knows the moment when the battle is lost. The soldiers around him keep on fighting and dying, but the attackers are too many, the defenders too few, and the tide of the battle is inevitably pushed from the gates to the belly of the castle.

Stannis's troops swarm like ants in an anthill across the keep, hacking Lannister and Tyrell men standing in their way. Sandor should hasten to the king's side in his sanctuary in the Maegor's Holdfast, but although he runs, his long strides take him to wrong direction as if moving independently of his will. He is exhausted and his sword-arm feels leaden from the countless attacks and defences he has kept up for hours against the foe; the cursed wildfire hammered him hard and he is bleeding from numerous scrapes and cuts, blood and sweat stinging in his eyes. His lungs feel scorched from the burning heat and his breath comes in gasping wheezes. Yet his tired mind directs him to one place and one place alone; to the chambers of the northern girl. She is not important enough to be sheltered with the ladies of the court and she has undoubtedly barricaded herself in her room, waiting to see which way the battle turns.

It has turned badly for her; as Sandor approaches, he hears sounds of a scuffle. Baratheon men have already overrun this part of the castle, and those keenest to blunder and rape have halted their progress in order to enjoy the spoils of war before order is restored. She screams but her voice is soon muffled as if a hand is pressed against her mouth.

Sandor's tired limbs jerk with new boost of energy as he sprints forward. The three men holding the girl don't know what hit them before it is too late; the first soldier loses his head from a clean strike of the Hound's enormous two-handed sword and the second man's throat is sliced cleanly by his dagger. The third soldier, holding the terrified girl, has just enough time to turn his face towards his fallen comrades when a tip of Sandor's sword pierces through his eye. In a matter of a few seconds all three are dead and Sansa is left standing among their corpses, her hair in disarray and her chest heaving violently. Surprisingly, again no tears streak her cheeks as she directs her confused gaze to Sandor.

_Sansa?_ Irrationally Sandor wonders when he started to think of her by her first name.

* * *

He didn't plan to, and every fibre of his body protests against his own actions even while he is carrying them out, but before the night is upon them Sandor has smuggled the girl and himself out of the defeated castle. In the ensuing chaos he was able to secure his blasphemously named horse with them, but he is all they have as they find themselves deep in the woods. The girl doesn't ask him questions and he gives her no answers, and the only sounds they hear are clanking bells of the city, distant screams of the defeated and drunken revelries of the victorious troops. King's Landing will be put on its knees that night and nobody knows what will be left standing the next day.

That was the third time he rescued her, but he doesn't even register it.


	4. The Sellsword and His Woman

**Author's Notes: **The fast-paced, impressions-based progress of this story seems to be bogging down now that Sansa and Sandor are on their own… oh well! I still try not to get stumped with too much detail and endless descriptions of every little incident and event. This also means that I am asking readers to take some 'leaps of faith' especially about the AU nature of some events… For example, as was quite rightly pointed out by an observant commentator, Tyrells having sided with Lannisters already before Blackwater could have suggested an inevitable win to that side. True, but the outcome of military battles can always be influenced also by chance and not only by the biggest numbers, so in this story Stannis prevails… Maybe his fleet wasn't quite as decimated by the wildfire due to a freak change of wind, or maybe lacking Tywin's brilliant leadership Tyrell forces stumbled and failed to reach the capital in time, or… In any case, there will be several big holes in this story I am sure – big enough for the Mountain That Rides to charge through - but as in the end it is focussed on Sandor's story and how his destiny gets fulfilled, I hope you indulge my improbably leaps… :-)

**Summary: **_Aye, he is not blind to the fact that the girl is utterly under his power, and should he wish so, he could take her every which way and nobody could do anything about it. Why he doesn't, when he is a red-blooded man and she a maid ripe to be plucked, he doesn't know. _

* * *

_**Sandor**_

A steady stream of travellers crowds the roads; fugitives from the battle, common people displaced from their homes and endless bands of soldiers travelling this way or that. The Hound and the girl try to blend in as well as they can, having changed their clothes to those of lowly peasants. A bloodied rag tied around Sandor's head as if to cover a fresh wound hides his distinguishable features – the girl suggested it and he acceded.

They hear that Stannis won a decisive victory and holds Joffrey and Cersei as his prisoners. The Hound snorts. What Stannis should do is to kill the bitch and her brood, but he is too bloody honourable and lets them live, inviting trouble to his new rule.

He knows that the Lannisters will try to rise again, and what _he_ should really do is to go to Casterly Rock and place himself under Lord Tywin's command once again. He tells the girl as much, and she doesn't contradict him, only looks at him with eyes so solemn and serious that the arguments he formed in his head to justify his stand die without being uttered.

He tells himself that he only needs to find somebody else that can take her out of his hands. He tells himself what a fucking fool he was to take her with him in the first place. He tells himself he doesn't care what happens to her; not now as he didn't before.

Yet days go by and still he hasn't left her.

* * *

"Take me to the North, to my family," she says. "Please," she adds as an afterthought.

Sandor glances at her sharply. This is the first time Sansa asks him for something. She has seemed content to follow his lead so far, walking beside him when he walks, riding with him when he tells her, eating, sleeping and looking after their meagre things at the pace he sets. His remaining tourney winnings, secured in his saddlebags before the battle in case of a defeat and escape, ensured they were able to buy some provisions from those who left the capital better prepared.

"What's in it for me?" he grumbles, tightening his hold on the reins. She sits securely within the circle of his arms, adjusting her movements to the rhythm of Stranger's steady gait.

"Gold. Other rewards. My brother will pay you well for my return." She stares at the road ahead of them. Wisps of her hair tickle his face, but he doesn't brush them aside.

"Your brother is still in the Riverlands, the last I heard. Wouldn't you rather go there?"

She – _Sansa _– turns to look at him across her shoulder. "He will turn back home, might already be on his way. I know my brother. The Lannisters have been defeated and my father has received his justice. Now Robb wants to look after his own people."

Sandor grunts non-committedly and they continue riding in silence. Yet the more he thinks about the proposal, the more appealing it sounds. Why not screw the Lannisters, go to the North and take the girl there, receive a handsome reward and become his own master? He could then travel across the Narrow Sea perhaps, and make his new life in the foreign lands in some reputable sellsword company.

So he accepts, naming his price and letting her know in no uncertain terms that the arrangement is purely a business transaction for him. He is a sword for hire and he will do his part as long as she can guarantee that she will do hers. When she asks what he wants from her as a collateral or assurance, he finds no words as he knows she has nothing. Except herself.

Aye, he is not blind to the fact that the girl is utterly under his power, and should he wish so, he could take her every which way and nobody could do anything about it. Why he doesn't, when he is a red-blooded man and she a maid ripe to be plucked, he doesn't know.

Sandor realises then that recently he has done great many things that make no sense - ever since he allowed the girl into his world. He curses and speaks to her harsher than he intended, but she absorbs it all silently and stays quiet and subdued for the rest of the day.

* * *

At first they keep to themselves, but a few days later in a small settlement where they stop to buy food and grain, the girl talks to a family also on their way to the North. It is led by a stern-eyed man, accompanied by his equally imposing wife, their two adult sons, two young daughters and a handful of servants. The head of the household is an influential Northerner, a merchant in King's Landing, who after having had enough of the southern wars decided to take his family and business and go back to his homeland.

There is safety in numbers, and although initially eyeing Sandor suspiciously, Sansa's words convince the merchant that he will be better off with the extra protection and help the two of them can provide. Their cover-story is that of a sellsword on his way to sell his services to the Young Wolf of Winterfell, and his woman. Sansa tells that his man is tired of unfulfilled promises of the House Lannister, and that House Stark is said to keep its word. The merchant agrees, declaring his support to his old liege lords, and so a mutually beneficial arrangement is struck and they find themselves continuing their journey with new travelling companions.

In the evening of the first day they are pointed towards one of the supply wagons and told that they can sleep there. So far they have slept in the open, each on their own bedding across a fire. As Sansa climbs into the wagon and spreads their beds and quilts across it as if it's the most natural thing in the world, the Hound barks at her.

"What do you think you are doing, girl?"

She looks at him blandly. "Making our beds, of course. This is the first time since we left King's Landing we will have a roof over our heads." She glances at the roof in question – a grand word for a stretch of rough-hewn fabric across four supporting beams, but it is well oiled and will keep the wind and rain away.

"Not worried about your reputation then?" he sneers, although the realisation that she is ready to sleep in such close quarters with him without batting an eyelid makes him feel…strange.

"Reputation doesn't protect me from my foes. And they already think we are a couple - it is just simpler that way. Or would you care to explain them why a big man like you travels with a woman without sharing his bed with her?" Her eyes take in his puzzled expression and Sandor could swear there is a hint of amusement in their depths. Except he hasn't seen her amused for a long, long time.

Without waiting for his answer she continues. "Or would you rather tell them that you are in my service – and let them wonder how a common girl can command a warrior like you in her pay?"

Sandor has to admit that it makes perfect sense, but still… He can't let it go quite as easily.

"If you are prepared to sleep with a man, you better be aware of the consequences," he shoots back at her, expecting her to blush, turn her gaze away or show some other signs of embarrassment. However, he is left waiting in vain.

"I am," she says matter-of-factly and doesn't even look at him but only continues to unpack their bags. It is Sandor's turn to be surprised. _What in seven hells? _

He can only conclude that she doesn't know what she is talking about, grunts and leaves to look after Stranger.


	5. Her Turn

**Author's Notes: **Yay, internet access once again! And a somewhat serious note to fix my earlier oversight: In this fic Sansa has been aged from the canon, for obvious reasons. I don't want to state exactly how old she is, as comparing ages and how they are interpreted in modern times to those of quasi-medieval GRRM times, is fraught with difficulties. Let's just say that she is mature enough to start a relationship.

**Summary: **_It is all too much to take in and sometimes he watches her and wonders why she did it. She doesn't really need him anymore, having a chance to travel towards her brother's land with the merchant's family, safe and sound._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor sees the outlaws first, his instincts screaming alert as the caravan slowly trudges forward on a lonely stretch of road. The place is ideal for an ambush and heavy wagons pulled by beasts of burden are an attractive target for any self-respecting thief.

The fight is bloody but short, and if the merchant had any doubts about the wisdom of letting them join his company, those surely dissipated quickly enough. Sandor makes a swift work of the attackers, ably assisted by the merchant's sons and servants, and soon the outlaws realise the futility of their efforts and scamper away in panic. Once it is all over they assess the damages to the party and to their relief find out that the attack led to surprisingly little harm either to property or persons.

The only exception is Sandor, who received a nasty cut in his flank from one of the robbers, having lacked the protection of his armour. In the ensuing hue and cry the others don't notice the blood welling from under his tunic, and he himself doesn't think much of it. He has been wounded many times before and his strong body has always pulled him through. He tells nobody about it, attending to the cut himself later in the evening and ignoring the pain that radiates from it. If it is of any benefit, at least it distracts him from the sleeping form of the girl by his side, an arrangement he has already found deeply disturbing.

The injury starts to heal well but then takes a turn for the worse. By the third day the pain is constant and the wound angry and swollen, red streaks radiating from it towards his chest and back. It shouldn't be like that, he knows, but he only curses between gritted teeth and obstinately continues to ride at the flank of the convoy. Lifetime of practice holds him in the saddle despite flushes of cold and hot engulfing him as the day drags on. Yet in the evening when he tries to dismount, his legs refuse to carry him and he falls on the ground. He snorts, the irony of having survived the greatest battle in the memory of the Seven Kingdoms only to be taken down by a pitiful team of outlaws and their dirty swords, not escaping his notice. The last thing he does before darkness overtakes him is laugh, a terrible rasping laugh in preparation of meeting the seven devils head-on, as he knows that burning pits of all hells is where he is surely going next.

* * *

Everything is a blur; noises, colours, smell of his own rotten flesh – and pain, pulsating pain throbbing through his body. Every now and then he feels something cool on his brow, foul-tasting liquid being forced down his throat, and then he is lost to shadows once more.

He sees things; an auburn-headed woman with lips red as rubies and eyes blue as a summer sky. He tries to see her face and the moment he does, an upturned nose and sensuous mouth change in front of his eyes to finer, more delicate features, but with a lip that has been struck and is bleeding. A rippled mark of a steel gauntlet mars the soft cheek, and her broken mouth opens as if to say something. From a distance Sandor hears woman's voice calling his name, but he is too weak to respond.

He sees children; strong boys and tall girls and he can't understand who they are and why it seems important for him to reach them. He runs towards the shadowy figures but they only walk away, glancing behind their shoulder as they do.

His throat is dry, so bloody dry that he would give his right arm for the weakest piss he has ever tasted in the dirtiest winesink in King's Landing. He tries to open his eyes but his lids are leaden and his eyeballs hurt and soon he gives up. What he can't escape is a steady jolt; _clinkety-clank, clinkety-clank,_ _clinkety-clank; _time and time again. It feels soothing and his head lolls with its rhythm.

Once Sandor hears loud voices, and they are too persistent to be only figments of his feverish mind. For a moment he doesn't know where he is, but then he recognises the other as Sansa's, although its tone is different than before. It is commanding and regal, like a clash of steel, in comparison to a man's high-pitched speech. It sounds like they are arguing about something. In his dizziness the only thing he can think of is to wonder why Sansa, whom he has never heard raise her voice in anger, should be so furious about something. Nonetheless, he doesn't find an answer to that riddle before sleep takes him over once again.

* * *

Sandor senses a slight movement near him and his soldier's instincts take over, his hand shooting up and clutching hard, catching something soft. One grasp is all he is capable of, and even as he hears a soft cry, his grip loosens and his hand falls on the bed again.

"You are awake?" a woman murmurs and he senses a soft hand on his forehead. He groans and next he feels a wooden cup on his parched lips, and a blessed trickle of cool water down his throat. He drinks greedily and splutters when the cup is removed.

"Where the fuck I am?" he croaks.

"In our wagon, still on your way to the North," Sansa says and wipes his face with a cloth dipped in water. It feels good, and her touch is gentle.

"Fucking hells," he mutters and feels his eyes closing once more.

* * *

Soon Sandor recovers his senses again, and soon again after that, staying awake a bit longer each time. Sansa brings him soup and water, although he calls for wine. She tells him that he has been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last several days, but that the fever seems to have broken and the infected wound has started healing. He examines the wound and indeed sees that it has been cut open and cleaned, and has settled down nicely.

He demands to be taken out the first time he needs to take a piss, and a sulking servant comes and escorts him on this mission. He notices that the retinue is the same as before, but they all look at him oddly under their brow.

"What in the seven hells is wrong with this lot?" he asks Sansa when she comes to his bedside. "They look at me as if I have suddenly sprouted horns!"

"Some may think just that," she says softly and leans closer with a bowl in her hands. "Your face could perhaps be explained away, but once they saw you fight they started to ask questions. It didn't take long before they realised that you are the Hound himself."

"So what? Without me they would have lost to the outlaws. You'd think they would be pleased to see my ugly face!" Sandor mutters, annoyed by the stupidity of people.

"Some said we should have left you in one of the villages we passed. That you are dangerous, and they could find themselves some morning with their throats cut." She lifts a spoon full of broth towards him, but he pushes it aside impatiently.

"They said so, did now? Well, I am glad they had the decency to find a maester to patch me up. Who knows, they might need me again, once I recover my strength," he fumes. She looks at him and raises her eyebrow.

"There was no maester, only me. And I didn't let them leave you, as surely you would have died if we did. You have saved me three times already, so the least I could do was to help you when you needed _my_ help."

Sandor is stunned for a moment and accepts the proffered spoon without resistance.

"_You?_ You didn't let them to leave me behind like a broken useless wheel? But how - why should they have listened to you?"

"Because I told them that it is not only cutting their throats they have to be worried about. That I am originally from near the Wall and have wildling blood in me. That I am kissed by the fire and can do things, like call the animals of the wild and make them do my bidding. I told them I will call the wolves of the forest and they will follow them and pick them up one by one if they don't take you along and give me what I needed to look after you." All the while she talks, she keeps feeding him broth, which he meekly swallows.

Something tugs at the back of Sandor's mind. The argument he overheard, Sansa raising her voice…was it because of _him?_ She stood her ground and refused to let them leave him?

Then another thing catches his attention. 'Three times', did she say?

_ …three times you step up and rescue her…_

* * *

Sandor doesn't know how to thank her, so he doesn't.

The thought of her, a castle-born and bred lady, attending to his putrefied flesh, cutting it open, cleaning it, attending to him in his delirious state… She must have also undressed him at some point, as when he woke up he was only dressed in his smallclothes. It is all too much to take in and sometimes he watches her and wonders why she did it. She doesn't _really_ need him anymore, having a chance to travel towards her brother's lands with the merchant's family, safe and sound.

His recuperation is fast once the infection has cleared, but still Sansa doesn't leave his side. Often she just sits with him, attending to some needlework and humming to herself some strange melodies. Every now and then she looks at him and opens her mouth as if to say something, but closes it again without making a sound. After a few times it starts to get on his nerves and he demands her to say whatever it is that she has on her mind.

Taken aback she hesitates.

"I know it is not for me to ask about your personal matters, but I wonder…" Her voice trails away.

"Out with it, girl!"

She lifts her shoulders defiantly and spurts out the last thing he would have guessed.

"Do you have a woman in King's Landing, or Casterly Rock? Do you have children of your own?"

Sandor stares at her his mouth agape. _Where the bloody hells did that come from? _Sansa watches him warily, waiting for his answer.

"What the fuck? Why would think that? Does it _look_ like I would have a woman?" He gets angry and points mockingly to his face. She doesn't shy away and seems unfazed by his outburst.

"You are more than your face, you know. And you…you talked about children in your fever. Sons and daughters. So I just thought…"

Sandor has a vague recollection of children in his dreams and he wonders how out of his mind he actually was. Yet if the girl says so, he must have spoken something.

"No, I don't have a woman, nor children – at least as far as I know. Whores tend to take care of such matters," he grumbles reluctantly.

Does he only imagine it or does she seem to relax at hearing that?

"You called for your children. You shouted something about 'my son the wolfhound, and 'pretty bird, daughter' - and then you went on about lords and queens, and something about red-heads or some such, that I couldn't really make any sense out of." She smooths the fabric of her rough-spun dress and glances at him as if expecting him to explain further.

Sandor shakes his head wearily, oddly embarrassed that she should have heard him mumbling such silliness.

"It all just sounded… a bit odd," she finally concludes. "Yet it must have been only your feverish mind, the poison of your wound clouding it."

She stands up and tells him she has to attend to the merchant's wife, and leaves in a faint swish of skirts. As she lifts the flap of the wagon-cover and sunshine bursts in, he sees that she has a small smile on her lips.


	6. Nights of Agony and Bliss

**Author's Notes: **Two days at a rock-festival – some of the heavy and trash-metal dudes I saw around gave me definitive Sandor'esque vibes so I could hardly wait to get back into the story!

**Summary: **_Still they don't talk about it and soon the act loses the air of defiance Sandor started it with, and becomes his unhurried pleasure instead. In a twisted way he enjoys doing it by her side, having finally accepted that he will never touch her. _

* * *

**_Sandor_**

The news trickle in steadily from other travellers, telling them that the War of Five Kings has finally and truly ended, the last nail on its coffin – literally – being the death of Balon Greyjoy. Stannis's strong hold on the Iron Throne and his determination to pacify _his _kingdom is stabilising the realm swiftly. Tywin Lannister rages impotently in his castle, unable to do anything as long as his daughter and her children are held by Stannis. Yet more and more people start to believe Stannis's arguments about Joffrey's true origins, and without a trueborn heir to King Robert, there are no real contenders left for the throne. Even Lord Tywin is too clever to mutiny without a political justification.

The matter of the North is still to be settled, but many guess that the Young Wolf may yet kneel in front of the Baratheon ruler in recognition of the old ties between the Starks and the Baratheons. He is heard to have reached the North, fighting his way to free his dominions from the grips of the remaining Ironborn. Sandor sees Sansa's eyes brighten at the news and for some unfathomable reason he contemplates the end of their journey with strange reluctance.

There is some disquiet between the merchant and his wife about the current state of affairs; he thinks Robb Stark should hold on to an independent kingdom of the North, but she is a southerner and a staunch supporter of King Stannis, wanting to see one unified realm. That unsettles Sansa, she tells Sandor, as otherwise she might have revealed her true identity to them. Yet should the wife betray her to Baratheon soldiers still frequenting the roads… She simply doesn't want to take the risk and Sandor agrees with her, and so they continue their charade of an escaped warrior and his woman.

* * *

Sandor is soon well enough to ride with the convoy. Every night Sansa continues to make their bed in the wagon, and every night when Sandor returns to it, he slips under the quilts next to her lithe body and feels her warmth against his cold limbs through the fabric. His strength gradually recovered, those nights become once again an equal mix of agony and bliss for him. His body reacts to her closeness and on some nights all he can think of is to lift her skirts, spread her legs and truly make her his woman. Hells, should he do it she could only blame herself, sharing her bed with him by choice. Yet he never does, but lies on his back and listens to her steady breathing, clenching his fists in frustration.

When they made their pact, their roles changed to those of a lady and her paid sword, even though they are the only ones who know it. Sansa having saved his miserable life has changed the situation once more. Now he owns her more than his service; he owns her his gratitude, no matter that he finds it hard to acknowledge. Yet Sandor knows that he can reverse both situations at any time if he wants. He is not under true obligation to return her, nor does he absolutely need the reward promised. Returning her kindness with cruelty – well, that's what he is, a savage beast, and she shouldn't expect otherwise.

Yet he doesn't touch her.

One night, when it gets too much, he strokes himself not caring if she hears him. Part of him _wants_ her to notice, taking grim satisfaction of the awkward position she has put herself into. He may be in her service and in her debt, but it doesn't mean he has to be on his best behaviour. Nonetheless, if she is aware of Sandor taking his pleasure by his own hand, she doesn't give it away. She lies peacefully by his side when he hisses his release, the sound of his constricted breath sounding too loud even to his own ears.

The next morning, however, he sees in her eyes that she _had_ noticed. She looks away as he stretches his long body and unhurriedly laces his breeches, but she says nothing. He sneers and gains grisly enjoyment of seeing her so, half-expecting her to make some changes to their sleeping arrangements. Yet when the evening comes, he finds her in their bed like before, as if nothing has happened.

When he does it again a few nights later, he registers the pattern of her breathing changing from deep and steady to faster and lighter, as well as slight tensing of her limbs that are pressed against his side. Yet she doesn't move away. Deliberately wanting to goad her Sandor moves his hand faster and in a wider arc, and when he releases, he grunts from deep within his chest before letting his body relax.

Still they don't talk about it and soon the act loses the air of defiance Sandor started it with, and becomes his unhurried pleasure instead. In a twisted way he enjoys doing it by her side, having finally accepted that he will never touch her. The scent of her hair and the heat radiating from her soft body envelopes him and makes him feel closer to another human than he has felt for a long, long time – if ever. Sometimes he pretends to be in sleep and turns towards her, pushing himself against her side or back, feeling his erection rub against her through the layers of cloth. Sometimes he has an overwhelming urge to grasp her hand in darkness and force it on top of his hard cock, just the thought of those long, delicate fingers curling around it making him almost lose it. He _knows_ that she is fully aware of what he is doing, and he doesn't understand why she doesn't challenge him about it. Surely a fine lady should feel insulted for such coarse behaviour? Or maybe this is what she thought were the consequences of sleeping next to a grown man, and she simply endures it as a price she has to pay for his protection and services?

He doesn't want to ask her, because as long as they don't talk about it, they can pretend it never happens. She continues to behave towards him as she has done since the beginning of their journey; kind and attentive, bringing him his meals and water and taking care of his needs as a woman of a sellsword would. They don't have many moments on their own during the days, the constant presence of others requiring them to act according to their roles. They are alone only during the nights, but even then she doesn't transform into a haughty high-born. She only smiles at him, bids him peaceful sleep and lays herself down trustingly – although not trustingly enough to remove more than her shoes and belt, sleeping in her simple dress. Again Sandor chooses to ignore propriety and removes his own tunic and undershirt – hells, it is hot under the covers and he is a hardened warrior used to sleeping in rough conditions. He leaves his breeches on nonetheless, although most mornings find them unlaced.

Yet the nights they share on top of the rickety wagon are not all about lust. Sometimes, when he is too tired, or the last lingering pains of his wound still ail him, he just lies by her side feeling the contours of her body pressing against him and feels contentment he has rarely felt before. The red-headed whore whose name he knew comes to his mind then and he curses himself for being a fool to let a woman near him only when she is either too common or too high to ever be his. And so, one more time, he reminds himself that the woman in his bed is not for him; not to take his brief pleasure with and definitively not for anything more.

Once – just once – he allows his mind to drift to the prophecy long forgotten.

_"The fire in your soul, and in the soul of the one who will heal you, and the fire in her hair." _

_"You will find a great love; a love so strong it will change the fate of the realm." _

_"Three times you step up and rescue her, and she steps up three times to save you." _

_"The lord of vast lands you shall be." _

_"Two sons and two daughters will come from your seed."_

Red-heads – bah, there are plenty of those around, as he can attest from his many finds in various whorehouses. Aye, he might have saved her three times – or maybe it was only two? It was Joffrey whom he really saved that first time on the battlements. And aye, she has saved his life once, but only once, and surely there will be no chances for more before they are in the North and she leaves his company.

The realisation that some of that old bat's ramblings has stayed in his mind well enough to be spurted out in his delirium annoys him at no end. And Sansa hearing it…he groans. The stupidity of it doesn't mean the prophecy makes any more sense than before; _love and lands and sons and daughters…_with someone like _her_?! He gets really angry and presses his hands against his temples in the dark as if to push those absurd notions back to where they came from.

He focusses his thoughts on his future instead and thinks of the lands across the sea, all the new sights he will get to see and all the new things he will do. In that future the Stark girl will surely fade away to be just a distant memory for him – just like the other girl did. And she – she might remember him as someone who conveniently came along and saved her at the time when she needed saving, but then had enough common sense to leave and never bother her again. A hound, a paid sword, a rude and ugly man and nothing more.

Convincing himself of that he feels better again.


	7. Touches

**Summary: **_The long fingers follow the ridges of old battle scars, careful around his latest wound. When they reach his navel they curl and turn so that her knuckles sweep gently in the dense hair that covers his chest and stomach._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sansa laughs.

The sound of it chimes like a crystal-clear bell and is so unexpected that it alerts Sandor across their makeshift camp. It is the first time he has heard it since her early days at the court, and he strains to see her from where he sits sharpening his blades. To his frustration he can't see what raised her joy, because she is obscured by huddling bodies of the merchant's two daughters. They are both in early cusps of womanhood and adore Sansa, following her at every turn they can. Sandor often sees them together, talking whatever it is that young girls talk to each other. At those times he is reminded that Sansa herself is hardly more than a girl, forced to grow up too fast.

That he was one of those who did much of the forcing, he recognises as well, but feels no shame about it. Somebody had to.

As their journey continues and they get closer to the North, he sees her spirits lifting and lightness returning to her steps. Their progress is slow due to their pace being set by the oxen, but Sandor doesn't mind. They have taken a habit often to walk side by side next to their wagon, Sansa asking him questions, pulling little details about his life so subtly that without him even realising it, the girl soon knows most there is to know about him. In return she tells him about her life in Winterfell, about the stern spirit of the Northerners, the ancient ties that bind people to their bleak lands. Yet she also paints a picture of loyalty beyond limits and acceptance of the importance of pulling together against the elements of nature. It all sounds alien to him, more used to seeing people fighting against each other for benefits to themselves, but he likes to hear her stories just the same.

She asks him what he intends to do after they have reached Winterfell, and he tells her of his plans. She gets quiet after that, and finally asks what he expects from his life. He laughs sullenly, but can't give her an answer. Has he ever _expected _anything? Or has life been what has been handed down to him by others, his own choices always being secondary?

* * *

Sandor feels the burn of twice-distilled strongwine running down his throat, stinging his belly as it enters, sending fiery explosions to his limbs and inside his head. The feeling is familiar and pleasant after weeks of sobriety and he drinks greedily.

The day was a good one, the merchant concluding profitable deals with local villagers. Faithful to his occupation he has traded as they travel; selling goods he brought from the south and buying things he can sell in the north. Happy about the day's outcome he orders a cask of strongwine to be opened for their small party to celebrate. The women join them for a few toasts, but as the evening progresses, they disappear leaving the men behind to talk and drink.

Sandor drinks cup after another and gets steadily more and more drunk. After the cask is emptied and the campfire dies out he takes to their wagon, swaying on his feet as he walks. Climbing the few steps seems an unsurmountable obstacle but he manages them just, falling on his stomach only his upper body reaching their bedding. He would be happy to snore the drink away there but something tugs at him insistently and after a while, through a haze, he realises it is Sansa, trying to pull him further.

He tries to resist but she doesn't leave him alone, and eventually he gives up and crawls the short distance on all fours before collapsing down again. His troubles don't end up there, however, as determinedly Sansa yanks his boots away to prepare him for the night. Sandor acquiesces half-heartedly and finally he is left in his tunic and breeches and he can dive into a bottomless pit of dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next thing he is aware of is something pressing against his skin. It is not a heavy, suffocating feeling, but smooth sweeps, moving from his shoulders to his waist, across his chest and down his sides. It feels warm and soft and is a strange sensation altogether – but not unpleasant. On the contrary, it feels good, almost as when Sansa was smoothing his brow with her hand when he was still under fever… And then it hits him and he realises what woke him.

Sandor's first reaction is to startle and push up, but his wine-muddled brain is slow to act and in the fraction of a time between the recognition and making a move, some unexpected instinct tells him to lay quiet instead.

He does so and now knowing what it is, starts to focus on the way she touches him. She has slid her hands under his tunic and her long fingers caress and examine the shape of his upper body, he being able to identify the press of individual fingertips and occasionally, the palm of her hand when she flattens it against him, taking in his shape. Her soft hands dance on his skin, sometimes hardly touching, sometimes pressing harder. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and allows himself to be swept by the sensation.

The long fingers follow ridges of old battle scars, careful around his latest wound. When they reach his navel they curl and turn so that her knuckles sweep gently the dense hair that covers his chest and stomach. It tickles him somewhat but he restrains his movements not to let her know he is awake.

Then one hand slips under the waistband of his breeches.

_Seven hells!_

Without stopping to think, he jolts, clasps her wrist and presses it hard against the bedding. She lets out a small yelp of pain and tries to move, but he is too shocked to pay attention to it and grasps her other hand as well, hovering his body above her.

"What in the bloody hells is this? Are you fucking out of your mind, girl?!" he grits between his teeth, mad at her, mad at himself.

She gives in to his grip and rests listless against the bed, her hair spread around her head. Her blue eyes are wide from the shock and she opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She blushes, a deep crimson spreading across her face, but she doesn't avert her gaze away from his angry scowl.

He stares at her, not sure what he expects her to say, still too stun by her audacity. _That's it, she has gone stark raving mad._ He wonders whether what she was doing was some kind of a dare, a game instigated by foolish young girls, too stupid to know that there are limits to how far a man can be teased. Not for a moment he considers that she could have touched him of her own free will and desire, so unbelievable the thought of a noble maiden wanting physical contact with an ugly, coarse warrior like him is.

Seething he lets go of her hands, rises from the bed and wills his cock, stiffened by her actions, to settle down. He leaves her without a word, but not before noticing her half-lidded eyes and an expression that has changed from shocked to solemn, as if she was contemplating something only she knows. Sandor groans inwardly and escapes from the wagon as if the seven devils are at his heels.


	8. Surrender

**Author's Notes: **My apologies for publishing this in such short dribs and drabs! I have noticed that if I hold on to a story, I have a bad habit of tinkering with it endlessly and getting bogged down, not moving forward with it … Whereas if I just submit it – that's it, can't do anything about it anymore and I can move on!

**Summary**: _Sandor stops on his tracks and takes a deep breath. He has faced countless foes and formidable adversaries both in a battle and on training grounds, and never has he shied away from them. Yet when he thinks of the girl waiting for him in the crude wagon, on their coarse bedding, his heart starts to race and his throat feels dry._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Later that day Sandor sees the merchant's daughters crowding around Sansa, and later his sons looking angrily at his direction. He knows they have eyed Sansa approvingly ever since they joined the caravan; both are unmarried and undoubtedly think that they could offer a much better proposition for the fine-looking sellsword's whore than the brooding, ugly man she is travelling with, the ex-sword of the fallen king.

That they all think she is a woman of loose morals is clear – they never said anything about marriage, and it didn't take long for the merchant's wife to realise that Sansa was not used to manual labour or ordinary household duties. What other ways there could be for a young woman to make her living if not by the labour of her hands – or on her back?

Later still Sandor hears a heated argument between the older son and his father. They wave their arms and gesture to his direction as he rides next to the procession, and to that of Sansa, sitting quietly in one of the wagons. The son's lips are pursed determinedly and he seems to ignore his father's shouting.

In the evening as they establish their camp by the roadside, Sandor is reluctant to go to their wagon or anywhere near her, but Sansa doesn't give him a chance to escape. She brings him his evening meal and sits down next to his feet, looking at the campfire and twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. As he gulps down the offered stew Sandor sees her hands and realises what the others were fussing about; unmistakable red and purple prints bruising her wrists.

He curses. He didn't realise his own strength and how hard he had grasped her. He coughs, not sure how to approach the subject.

"Your hands… I didn't mean to press so hard. Do they hurt?"

She looks at him surprised and gives him a brief smile, rubbing her wrists as if reminded of the existence of the bruises.

"Nothing I can't handle. I know you didn't mean it."

Irrationally Sandor feels irritated once again. What if he _did _mean it? The girl can't do such a thing to him without his say-so and expect to escape unharmed.

"Was that what all the fuss with the merchant's family today was about? I saw them talking damn keenly about something that surely is not their business."

Again she looks up at him and smiles assuredly. "Yes, they thought you had harmed me by intent. They seem to think that you are holding me against my will and that I am too afraid to leave you. That I was a fool and lost my chance to escape when you were ill. Both sons have come to me quietly and offered to take me away from you, even proposed to pay you good coin for me."

Sandor sees red. So that's it, young idiots thinking that they can just come and take what is his. It takes him a moment to realise that she is _not_ truly his, has never been. He shifts uncomfortably on his seat. If necessary, he will fight for her – after all, he is in her service and her wellbeing is his duty now.

"So they did? What did you tell them? I hope that you let them know that should they try to put their dirty hands on you, they will face a real danger of being skewered through their guts," he curses, throwing a thoroughly gnawed shinbone from his stew to the bushes as if it was the weapon with which he is prepared to execute his threat.

She sits quietly for a moment, before talking directly to the fire.

"No. I told them I will not leave you because I love you. And that you didn't deliberately cause the marks they saw."

A punch in his gut couldn't have taken him more off balance. _Love?_

She turns to him and smiles nervously. "It is not as if I could have said that it was not you who did them – the bruises are too clear and match your hands too well." Slowly her smile turns mischievous. "They probably think that it happened in a heat of passion."

Sandor groans out loud, ashamed, but also oddly nervous. There is no response he can give her – it is a clever story she has offered to their travelling companions; a tale of love and partnership that should keep them out of their affairs. Yet a ruse to placate their hosts could have been told straight to his face, not to the crackling fire. And a ruse doesn't explain her behaviour that morning.

* * *

As he makes his last rounds around the camp that evening to make sure everything is ready for the night, Sandor finally admits to himself what he has denied for much too long. It is with a feeling of trepidation that he accepts his final surrender – a sensation altogether new to him. Aye, he _wishes_ that what the girl told was true! Bloody oath, he _hopes_ that she would truly care for him! Fucking hells, he _wants_ her to love him – whatever that word means.

If she truly were a commoner, just a sellsword's woman and not a lady… If the charades they were playing were true, and he would be on his way to offer his services to the Young Wolf and she following him as his woman… If he were accepted in Winterfell, he could settle Sansa in the keep and return to her every evening, be comforted by her presence and do everything in his power to make sure she would be happy. Hells, he could even marry her if that was what she wished – _if_ she were only a commoner.

Yet the cold reality stares him straight in the eye. She is _not_ a commoner, she is _not _his to have, and he is _not_ going to stay in Winterfell. After what he has now realised, it would be a torment bigger than anything he has known before. To see her from afar, recall the times they laid next to each other and know that she will never be his.

Sandor stops on his tracks and takes a deep breath. He has faced countless foes and formidable adversaries both in a battle and on training grounds, and never has he shied away from them. Yet when he thinks of the girl waiting for him in the crude wagon, on their coarse bedding, his heart starts to race and his throat feels dry.

Will she try to lay her hands on him again? If she does, will he let her?


	9. The attack

**_Summary: _**_Sandor pulls Stranger's reins and he rises up again, but a sudden turn makes him lose his balance and he falls, landing heavily on his side. Something cracks and snaps under him and he curses. _Bloody fucking hells!

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Part of Sandor wants to acknowledge the dizzying depths of his first love, letting it swallow him whole like a bottomless sea, not leaving even a ripple of his previous existence on its surface.

Another part of him sneers at his carelessness and warns him about the dangers of letting himself lose his head to the unattainable.

The latter part wins and he struggles to keep his emotions in check and letting none of them to peek through. Yet when he thinks back at the way he has treated her thus far, he feels ashamed, and he tries to make amends.

He stops calling her 'girl', stops pleasuring himself next to her in the darkness, and he lets her wait on him only as much as necessary to keep up the pretences of their roles. He goes out of his way to help her in her chores, carrying heavy water buckets and sacks of grain for her and refusing to let her make their beds or pack their bags.

She frowns and is clearly perplexed by the change, but after trying to deny his help several times and always failing, she lets him be. One evening, as they get ready for the night, she smiles at him.

"Do you know that our travelling companions think I am with a child?"

"What the fuck!?" Sandor can't believe his ears. Sansa's smile widens.

"Yes, they have noticed how you are helping me, and that is the only explanation they can think of. One of the daughters even asked me if I know when the babe is due."

Sandor stares at her. Just the thought of her carrying _his_ child is disconcerting, and for a moment his mind travels along the paths he has denied from himself. Sansa getting heavy from his seed growing inside her, her breasts filling with milk for the babe… Coming back to the present he realises he is still staring and he wonders if the assumption offends her. From the looks of it, it doesn't, as she is still smirking. Then she turns serious.

"_Why_ do you do it? You refuse to tell me, but after all we have gone through together I believe I am entitled to know what has changed." Her gaze is steady and he is the one who turns away, muttering something about only trying to earn his reward.

* * *

She doesn't touch him again and that leaves Sandor relieved and disappointed in equal measures. Every so often he regrets his hasty actions the one time she did. She had clearly thought him to be too drunk to detect her approaches. _Why in the seven hells did she do it? Young maiden's curiosity, was that it? _Had he only allowed her to continue, what would have happened? Her hand sliding into his breeches… He winces and hopes he could re-live the moment again.

He takes his enjoyment out in the wild now, late in the evening or at first light, when nobody else is around. Once, on a day when the caravan rested, he pretended to be too tired to get up and after Sansa left, pressed his face against the indentation she left on their bedding. He inhaled her scent and fucked himself into his hand imagining her slender body squirming under him, she wrapping her long legs around his loins and receiving his heavy pounding, until he felt his seed spurt out in a heady explosion of bliss.

* * *

Sandor is ready to mount, Stranger dancing anxiously on his spot, eager to get going after weeks and weeks of slow trudging. Sansa is standing next to a docile mare, all their belongings bundled on the two horses. It is time they departed the merchant's company, his way taking him towards White Harbor, theirs towards Winterfell.

Terse farewells are exchanged. Both parties have benefited from the arrangement, but since Sandor was recognised as the Hound, the others never truly let down their guard. Yet Sansa was universally liked and she embraces the merchant's daughters with tears in her eyes.

"Should we meet again, I hope my position will be much improved and I can return to you some of your kindness," she tells them. Their mother looks on and smiles condescendingly, undoubtedly not being able to imagine a situation where a soldier's whore could do _them_ any favours. Sansa turns to the merchant and curtsies to him, repeating her promise.

Then they mount their horses and start the last leg of their journey.

* * *

_[A few years later the merchant visits the court of the King in the North. When he sees a woman with auburn hair standing proudly beside the king, and a few steps behind her the form of a tall, broad-chested warrior with a terribly scarred face, it takes him a while to reconcile them with the deserter and his whore he met several years ago. Unsure of whether he really saw it true, he says nothing, but Sansa approaches him after the audience and reminds him of the times past. Hardly believing his eyes and ears, he is eventually convinced._

_Sansa is true to her words and personally ensures good marriages to the merchant's two daughters and stands as the guest of honour in their wedding ceremonies. Both sons have already married, but she is there when their first-borns are presented to the gods and blesses them personally. Since then the merchant's wife never stops talking about the time when she helped the Lady of the Gifts in her escape from the pretender king's court back to her homeland.]_

* * *

They travel swiftly, aiming to reach Winterfell in the least amount of time - with any luck they could reach it within a week. The first night when they make camp Sandor assumes them to go back to the arrangement they had when they first left King's Landing, both sleeping on their own bedding across the campfire. Yet Sansa drags their bedding next to each other and states matter-of-factly that since nights are colder in the north, they must maintain all the warmth they can get. Sandor doesn't resist and as they lay close to each other, he nudges right next to her and lifts his arm on his side for her to put her head against it, if she so wishes.

She does, and he gets bolder and envelopes her fully in his arms, knowing these to be the last times he will get to hold her. As her breathing slows down he stays awake for a long time and stares into a starred night above their heads.

* * *

A small party of men approaches them on horseback along the road and Sandor eyes them warily. He hopes they have no foul intentions, as there are four of them and only one of him. His wishes turn out to be futile because as soon as the party sees them, they start hollering and throwing insults.

"A juicy bone here, and look at the ugly dog guarding it!"

"Much too good for him, she is, let's take them!"

Sandor pulls out steel, hoping now instead that the men would be just ordinary thieves and outlaws, inexperienced in proper fighting. A castle-trained knight can defeat a many-fold number of opponents who don't know the ways of battle. Yet once again his hopes are squashed as the men meet him sword on sword, strike on strike. He is better than them, that's for sure, and Stranger does his part amicably rising to his hind legs and thrashing their opponents with his hooves. Sandor fights against the three of them, turning and docking and swinging his sword, but also leaning forward for a fraction of a second to slap Sansa's horse on the buttocks and yelling "Ride Sansa, ride to Winterfell! I'll keep these bastards occupied!"

She looks at him in panic but her horse has already bolted and sprints her away, and Sandor turns his attention back to the fight. One man is already down on the ground, another bleeding from a cut in his shoulder.

The he feels piercing pain in his right shoulder; an arrow protrudes from it and he sees the fourth man a small distance away getting his bow ready for another shot. He curses, and in the moment of distraction another man near him lunges forward. Sandor pulls Stranger's reins and he rises up again, but a sudden turn makes him lose his balance and he falls, landing heavily on his side. Something cracks and snaps under him and he curses. _Bloody fucking hells!_


	10. The Second Time

**Author's Notes: **Thank you soooo much to all of you for leaving comments and reading, and liking this! I am facing serious problems of this story growing too big (this was supposed to be a holiday dribble, after all), so I have to do some curbing of the storyline. I may have to leave out much of the politics and other events – but like in modern times; even if it is not mentioned, it is there…

**_Summary: _**_Sansa turns her head back towards the commander who seems to shrink smaller at her ever word. Her words are soft as velvet. "Which one of these is your choice, good ser, if I may ask?"_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor lies on the ground completely winded, with no air in his lungs, and when he tries to inhale he feels sharp pain in his side. _Buggering hells!_ His only hope is that Sansa managed to escape, accepting that steel will soon pierce his own heart. Yet the men only dismount and approach him cautiously, holding onto their weapons. He is soon disappointed as one of the men, who rode after Sansa, comes back with her horse on tow, she writhing in his arms in front of him.

"I told you so. 'Tis the Hound, that ugly face tells it for true," declares the one bleeding from the gash Sandor's sword made.

"Aye, with his woman. Trying to escape Baratheon troops hoping to disappear in the North, methinks," the one appearing to be their leader scowls. Sandor is lying flat on his back, trying to assess his condition. The arrow is still buried in his shoulder and hurts like hell. He finds out he can breathe, if he takes short and shallow breaths. Ribs broken, mayhap. Sansa is kicking and scratching the man who caught her, but he only laughs and squeezes her tighter.

"Well, we better take these two to the main camp and ask the commander what to do with them. Mayhap he will give us the girl as a reward for catching the Hound. Gather around, men, and tie him up."

The leader, a squat man with greying beard and temples, points to his troops and they come closer. Sandor lies still, assessing his next movements in his head. _Once they lean down to grab me, I'll pull one of them to me as a shield, grab my dagger from my boot and…_

His musings are interrupted as the archer curses. "Somebody is coming!"

Indeed, they can hear a thunder of hooves and soon see a disciplined group of riders approaching, banners streaming in sunlight. They are too far for Sandor see their sigil, but whoever it is, the timing couldn't have been better.

Their assailants reach for their mounts, all ideas of tying Sandor forgotten, and speed away – with Sansa. Sandor gets slowly onto his feet, cursing loudly as he does, and when the approaching riders reach him he yells to them to go after the girl. Whether they hear him or not, the riders divide into two, the larger group following the escapees, the smaller staying behind. Sandor soon finds out that only his captors have changed, his own position remaining the same; being held in check at sword-point. Yet he doesn't cast a thought to his own situation but only follows the disappearing riders with his gaze, his whole being willing them to reach Sansa and save her. If anything should happen to her… The thought is painful and his heart skips a beat. _Let her be unharmed, let her be saved, _he finds himself intoning, paying no attention to the men around him.

In the few minutes that pass before they see the others again it flashes through his mind how important the girl has become to him. Aye, she is not _for_ him – but he would gladly lay down his own life to make sure that she is safe and sound and returned to her family.

To his immense relief the other group soon returns. The ensuing scuffle was clearly one-sided, all four men captured and bleeding, one of them already seemingly dead, flung carelessly on a back of a horse. Sansa has changed seating, sitting now in front of one of the newcomers. She sees Sandor and her agonised expression changes to relieved, although tears are still streaming down her face. _Were any of them for me? _he can't help thinking.

Only now he has time to process the banners and sees them to be the direwolf of House Stark, another banner underneath them depicting a black battle-axe on silver. His relief is only momentary as the commander of the new troops only glances at him briefly with no more interest than if he were an irritating insect and gives an order to his men.

"Hang them all. Keep the girl, we can interrogate her about the whereabouts of the main band and take her to Winterfell later, if she cooperates."

The soldiers – as that what they clearly are, experienced, disciplined soldiers - hurry to carry out the order with no delay. As some of them approach Sandor, he suddenly hears a voice. _Everyone_ hears it, so loudly it floats above all the other noises; horses whinnying, men laughing, jesting and cursing.

"LEAVE HIM BE, AT ONCE!"

Everyone looks around to see where it came from, and Sandor finds himself staring at Sansa along with all the others. She has been lowered to the ground by her captor and stands proudly, pointing a hand towards the commander. She may look drab and common in her rough-spun dress, but something in her demeanour makes the men stop. The commander is the first one to recover from his astonishment.

"And who may you be, girl, to presume to give us commands?" He is not angry - yet - but his eyes gleam with a barely concealed warning.

"Do not address me as a girl, I beseech. Instead address me as I is my due; I am Lady Sansa Stark of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn of House Tully, sister of the King in The North, Robb Stark." Sansa has seemingly grown taller – maybe it is only her posture – and she looks downright regal. She squares her shoulders and stares brazenly straight at the commander before continuing.

"These men seized us only a moment before your arrival and we know nothing about them or their other companions. This man here is in my service and has nothing to do with the outlaws. You may have heard of him – to some he is known as the Hound, but for those who matter his name is Sandor Clegane. He is true to me and House Stark, and he has injured himself trying to protect me. His wounds need to be attended to at once!"

The commander looks more uncertain now, but clearly doesn't want to be taken for a ride by some shameless outlaw's camp-follower.

"You may say so, but how do I know it is true? You don't exactly look like a lady." His eyes sweep up and down Sansa's form, undoubtedly registering her dishevelled appearance, simple clothing and her hands which are roughened by manual labour.

"You have my word on it – young lord Cerwyn, is it? I recognise your sigil well, having seen it flow proudly with the direwolf of my house many a times. Your house is one of the closest bannermen to the Starks, Castle Cerwyn being one of the nearest castles to Winterfell. Lord Medger Cerwyn rode to many wars with my father and I believe, with my brother as well." Sansa doesn't falter for a second as she addresses the young man in front of her. "You, my lord, are perhaps Lord Medger's eldest son Ser Cley?"

Clearly taken aback the commander stares at Sansa. She must see in his face that he is still doubting, as she approaches him and speaks softer.

"I see that you hesitate still, and I commend you for that. I am glad to be able to report to my brother that he has men who are not only brave, but also cautious and careful, in his service. Yet the way I see it is that you have but a few options. You can proceed with your original plan, hang this good man here and take me to Winterfell as your prisoner. In that case you can rest assured that my displeasure at your actions will be made known to my family once they see me back amongst their midst. _Or_ you can take my word for the truth it is and escort me and my trusted man back to my family, receiving eternal gratitude of my house. _Or_ you can decide that you have had enough of the ramblings of a madwoman and hang me and my man and forget this ever happened."

The whole company, some twenty men or more, listens intently to Sansa's words. She turns and sweeps them all with her gaze, and even though Sandor has seen it falling on him hundreds of times, he shivers under its new frostiness. He has never seen or heard her thus, with tone of voice and demeanour of someone who is used to giving orders. He didn't even know her to be capable of it! He wonders if she had addressed him in that manner before, would he have heeded her and treated her differently? He'd like to think he wouldn't have, but something about her makes him question what happened to the starry-eyed timid young girl whom he first saw in Winterfell.

"Should you decide to do that, I'll let you know this: Only a few days ago we departed the company of a good man, a merchant, who swore he will visit Winterfell soon. Should he arrive and enquire after my wellbeing, and not find me there, my brother will organise an enquiry. All the troops who have been patrolling these lands will be questioned and some of your men may still remember the young woman with Tully hair and eyes and her tall companion." Sandor knows that to be a lie, as the merchant left still blissfully unaware of the importance of his travel companions. Yet he admires her audacity and quick thinking.

Sansa turns her head back towards the commander who seems to shrink smaller at her ever word. Her words are soft as velvet. "Which one of these is your choice, good ser, if I may ask?"


	11. Last Night

**_Summary: _**_Things may have changed and she may be a lady - yet in the darkness of the night her scent is as sweet as before, she is as soft as always and she leans on him as trustingly as in the past. And he succumbs to her intoxicating presence and forgets the world around him – just for one last night._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Young Ser Cley is as efficient in attending to his unexpected guests as he was in chasing the outlaws. Sandor is soon examined by one of the soldiers who knows about the ways of healing. The man removes the arrow from his shoulder and cleans the gaping wound thoroughly with boiling wine. He also deems Sandor to have broken several ribs and his collarbone, and wraps a swath of firm cloth around Sandor's ribs and binds his arm into a sling. Sansa hovers near them throughout the ordeal despite Ser Cley's assurances that her sworn man will be taken good care of.

As the day is still young, they turn back towards Winterfell, their leader having decided that taking their liege lord's sister back to the castle is more important than the chase of the group of outlaws. Yet they are still a few days ride away and have to stop for the night, which presents its own problems now that they have a lady of high birth in their company.

Although the troops in pursuit of an enemy travel light, they carry two-man-tents for all. The commander himself approaches Sansa and delivers her one of those, together with a bundle of warm furs and his assurances that her sleep will be well guarded. Best bits of steaming hot soup, bread and cheese are brought to her and she receives it all with good grace, insisting on Sandor being served as well.

Sandor accepts that his night will be spent in outdoors, the tent offered to Sansa already forcing some of Cerwyn's men to squeeze three-a-tent. He only hopes that he can stay somewhere near her.

Ser Cley retires, bidding Sansa courteous good night wishes. She withdraws to her tent, only to emerge shortly from its opening, gesturing to Sandor.

"You will sleep in my tent. I can't allow you to spend your night outdoors, not after what you have done to me – once again."

He stares at her, astonished. _What I did to her?_ He is not stupid and knows that without Sansa's interference he would be swinging from a tree just like those poor bastards who first attacked them. Not a pretty sight or smell; loose bowels and swollen tongues.

He refuses to think that it is the _second_ time she has come between him and certain death.

Sandor glances around at the men preparing their own tents and sees them looking at them curiously. He hisses between his teeth, "You can't be serious, little bird. Me sleeping in your tent – that'll not do. I'll be fine here, setting my bedding just outside."

She looks at him and smiles, that assured but at the same time coy smile of hers.

"Have you not pledged yourself to my service to do as I bid? I _bid_ you to join me." She sweeps the tent-flap aside and moves further inside. Only her slender hand remains visible, leaving Sandor frowning and unsure of what he should do. He knows that going in would be scandalous, no matter how many nights they might have already spent together, and how rough the conditions in their current camp are. Things are different now; they are in the company of _others_ - people who know who she is. That they know who he is makes it only worse – Lady Stark sheltering the Lannister dog! He saw pointed fingers and heard snippets of muttered discussions between the men as they rode, indicating their unhappiness of having to escort a man of such ill-repute.

_Fuck them!_ If the little bird is brave enough to confront them, hells if he is not! He bends down and steps in gingerly, crouching on his hands and knees. Their bedding has already been set - just like countless nights before. And she is lying on them - just like countless nights before. What _has _changed is that even any last remaining shreds of their pretend roles have fallen off.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? Don't you have any concerns about your reputation, little bird?" He feels almost an obligation to warn her about the possible consequences of her actions.

She shifts to make room for him, an annoyed look flashing across her face.

"My reputation? You mean I should be worried about what is proper?"

"That's exactly what I mean and you know it. The time for mummery is over and you are back in your own world now. In that world I am the enemy's dog, from a minor house, not even a knight. Why would you care to tarnish yourself by association with me?" He settles down next to her but remains seated, turning his body to look down at her. He doesn't want to get too comfortable as he may be leaving yet, after having convinced her of her folly.

Sansa frowns and twirls a strand of hair between her fingers, staring at the roof of the low tent.

"I was always proper, a fine little lady, obeying my parents and elders trusting that they know what is best for me. And where did it leave me? My parents betrothed me to a cruel prince. My kingly brother didn't want to ransom or exchange me although he had a chance. Not that I blame him – he had to make his own choices." Her eyes capture his and he sees that she has given this a lot of thought.

Her voice gets stronger. "Then my captors, who dared to call me their _guest_ instead of a prisoner I truly was, insisted me on continuing with the farce of engagement, only to throw me aside like an old glove when I wasn't needed any more." Her cheeks are flushed and he thinks he has never seen her as beautiful as this moment, outraged and strong and finally seeing the world for what it is.

"Aye, you say it true. Honour and obedience don't get rewarded in this world."

"You are the only one who hasn't lied to me, hasn't tried to deceive me or belittle my needs or wants. Acting the role of a sellsword's woman with you, I got to do what _I_ wanted. I followed you because I _wanted _to, and nobody questioned me about it or forced me to do something else. When the merchant's sons asked me to come with them, they respected my choice and it was up to me to decide what to do."

"Were you tempted?" The offer still rankles Sandor's mind. She looks at him reproachfully.

"Of course I wasn't! Neither in real life nor in the mummer's tale. Do you think I could have imagined leaving you, after everything?"

Sandor mutters something ineligible. She raises herself up and touches his arm, gently.

"Hence I asked you here. I have tasted freedom and found it sweet and to my liking. From now on I will not meekly submit to what the others - or society - expects from me. Damned be the propriety! You are injured and need to sleep in a proper shelter now that we have them, and I will not let some wrong modesty to stand in the way of that."

She leans closer and starts to tug at the sling holding his arm.

"Besides, it is not like we wouldn't have been sleeping next to each other for a long time now – I am not sure if I can rest without you protecting me by my side."

Sandor acquiesces, bemused by the notion what will wait the Young Wolf once Sansa returns home, but also touched by her sincerity. The timid girl deferring to the will of her family is well and true gone, replaced by the woman prepared to make her own decisions. He sighs and lowers himself down.

Things may have changed and she may be a lady - yet in the darkness of the night her scent is as sweet as before, she is as soft as always and she leans on him as trustingly as in the past. And he succumbs to her intoxicating presence and forgets the world around him – just for one last night.

* * *

Sandor is the first one to wake up and takes his time to examine her. Morning light streams through thin fabric and Sansa's features are relaxed in sleep, her long eyelashes resting on her cheek. Her skin has lost its ladylike paleness a long while past, sun having coloured it to a healthy hue. Freckles populate her nose and chin in fascinating formations and he follows their pattern with his eyes. He has observed her thus on many mornings and could draw a map of her freckles in his dreams.

She breathes deep and slow, her mouth only a slightest bit ajar revealing pearly white teeth between her lips. He lifts his hand carefully, trying to stay as still as possible in order not to wake her, and ghosts around the contours of her face with the very ends of his hardened fingertips. He marvels how such beauty can exist.

He has no illusions that he should sleep next to her again; last night she took matters into her own hands after the commander had retired, but Sandor knows she is unlikely to be able to do that again. He saw the way young Ser Cley looked at her, once convinced of her identity, and he didn't like it. The young commander seemed a man who didn't like things not going his way, and he most certainly would be displeased to see the enemy dog too close to a noble lady under his protection. Would Sansa stand up to him again? Would he allow her to damage her reputation any further?

He must have alerted her despite his carefulness as she wrinkles her nose and shifts slightly on her spot, continuing her movement with a languid stretch, as a cat. Then her eyes open, first somewhat unfocussed while taking in her surroundings, until having travelled around the tent they stop on Sandor's face.

She smiles. She looks at him in the eye and she _smiles. _Sandor feels an iron fist squeezing his heart in a tight grip; so tight it hurts. Before he can say anything, she whispers, "Good morning."

"Good morning, little bird," he mutters back. For a moment they just stare at each other. He wonders what she thinks of their return to their proper positions and about being able to give up the tedious pretence. It was necessary for her survival and she endured it well – surprisingly well, he admits – but she must be glad to shed it away and become once again the highborn maiden she is.

Whatever she thinks, she doesn't say it, only gazes at him solemnly. Their faces are close to each other and he feels her warm breath against his hand, arrested against her cheek. Fleetingly he wonders how it would feel to kiss those lips. He has never much kissed women before. Only the redhead from his past kissed him willingly and even then he was more likely to endure than instigate it.

Time stands still and she seems to be holding her breath.

Then they hear movement outside the tent and a poorly feigned cough - and the spell is broken.

"My lady, apologies if this too early, but the camp is waking up. Would you care to join me to break your fast so we can get a good start for the day's journey?" Ser Cley calls out.


	12. Winterfell

**Author's Notes: **I have been scratching my head over the last few days thinking of the ways how Sansa could save Sandor one more time – and I think I got it now… As before, thank you all for your lovely comments – this turned out to be a bit longer than I anticipated, but 'tis all good…

**_Summary: _**_She meets his gaze and all of a sudden he recognises _her_ behind the trappings of a noble lady – the girl who cooked his dinners and poured his drinks, who soothed his feverish brow and who fought for his life when he himself was helpless._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Seeing Sansa finally being reunited with her family brings a bittersweet conclusion to the long journey he started on the day Stannis Baratheon's troops conquered the Red Keep. Gone is a haughty noblewoman and in her place a sobbing young girl, desperately clutching to her mother, brother and sister. Sandor sees it all from his place at the end of the retinue, having voluntarily relegated himself there. Soon enough Sansa is whisked inside the castle and he settles to find his own way in the keep, feeling curiously hollow now that his task is done.

* * *

As he had guessed, the night they shared in the tent was their last, Ser Cley's shock and displeasure being evident when it was he, not Sansa, first emerging from it. If looks could kill he would have been a dead man for sure. That evening a soldier brought Sandor his own tent and he accepted it without a complaint - he knew things had changed and would never be the same again.

The moment just before the young idiot disturbed them refused to leave his mind, fleeting thoughts of a kiss having woken something in him. Even in the early days of their travel, when he had entertained the notion of taking her for his pleasure, he had never envisioned _kissing_ her. _What good are kisses for?_ he used to think. They didn't empty man's balls any better, nor prolonged his pleasure with a wench. Yet… What would have happened had he tried? He shrugged his shoulders as he rode on._ I will never know - and probably better that way._

Ser Cley stayed as glued to Sansa's side for the remaining of their journey. That he liked to play the role of a noble knight saving a damsel in distress was obvious, preening as a peacock he was. Sansa responded to his advances courteously, but just seeing her smile at the sodden ser made Sandor bristle. Yet he told himself that he better get used to it, for what little time he was still to spend in her company. She was bound to marry one such knight or lord soon enough to build alliances for House Stark.

On one occasion Sansa sent Ser Clay away and beckoned Sandor to ride beside her, and extracted from him a promise that he would stay in Winterfell until he had properly heeled. He agreed, knowing he needed time before he would be in any shape to travel across the Narrow Sea. She seemed content with that and for the rest of the day they rode side by side, talking some but mostly in silence. When Ser Cley attempted to join them, one look from Sansa sent him back and Sandor felt quiet satisfaction seeing the perturbed expression on the face of that self-important fool.

* * *

Sandor sees Winterfell much changed, but instead of a defeated fortress, it brims with energy and confidence. He doesn't see much of Sansa, but she sends the Maester of the Keep to examine his injuries, and a servant to enquire if he is well taken care of and if there is anything that he requires. He needs nothing, he replies, being content to stay in the lodgings provided for him and concentrate on his recuperation. He notices two soldiers following him anywhere, presumably unobtrusively, undoubtedly sent by the king. He knows he could take them on at any time, but why would he? So he leaves them alone, understanding this to be a reasonable precaution by the Young Wolf.

The thought of leaving soon fills him with strange emptiness, but there is nothing he can do. He can't return to Lannister service, and it is unlikely that any other house in the Seven Kingdoms would welcome him either. No, as soon as he gets his promised reward and is well enough, he must go.

* * *

On the third day from their arrival he is called in front of the King in the North. He waits for Sandor in the Great Hall, Queen Jeyne, Lady Catelyn and Lady Arya by his side, the inhabitants of the keep seated according to their station.

And Sansa.

_Lady Sansa,_ he quickly corrects himself. She looks nothing like the girl who travelled by his side, having bathed and her long hair being brushed until it shimmers like silk, bound by a circlet of gold. She is dressed in a flowing dress of fine cloth and lace and she looks so breathtakingly beautiful that it feels like a slap to Sandor's face to think that he has ever dared to be coarse and rude to her.

King Robb speaks to him sternly but kindly, thanking him for his services to his dear lady sister. He swears he will honour her pledges in full and offers him the exact same sum they agreed upon at the beginning of their journey. Lady Catelyn's face bears a veneer of courtly politeness as she observes the proceedings. She is an impressive woman with strong features, bright blue eyes and rich auburn hair – just like Sansa's. He remembers the old saying, 'Like mother like daughter', and knowing how much Sansa has taken after her mother, knows her to become similarly handsome and dignified as she gets older. _Not that I get to see it_, he concludes sullenly. Young Lady Arya fidgets on her place and eyes Sandor curiously. He has heard that Sansa's little sister experienced rough times since fleeing the capital after Lord Eddard's beheading, traveling across the countryside under a disguise of a boy before finally being ransomed back to her family by a group of sell-righteous outlaws. Momentarily it amuses him that House Stark now seems to have two daughters who have tasted freedom with its curses but also with its rewards.

A servant brings forward two purses full of gold dragons and he takes them, although their weight, which previously would have brought him comfort and assurance, now feels only a burden. He steals a glance at Sansa, proud and tall on the dais, and sees her smiling. Her promise fulfilled, their transaction completed, she owes nothing more to him, he understands.

As he mutters his thanks and turns to leave, the young king speaks again.

"Your reward has now been paid, but there is something else. My dear sister tells me that you have protected her bravely and with honour, and she wishes to part you another gift as a token of her appreciation."

Sandor looks at her again in surprise and sees her smile widening.

"She told me you had to abandon your armour when you escaped the Red Keep under a disguise. For a man your size it is not easy to find a new one, so her gift is to have a new suit of armour made for you. The task will be undertaken by Winterfell's best craftsman to your exact measurements, and will include everything a warrior of renown will need. I have acceded to this and already commissioned this task to our master-smith."

Sandor's mind swirls. New armour is a generous gift; he will sure as hells need one if he is to become a sellsword. Yet to make one takes time; depending on its urgency it can take several weeks, even over a month. His wounds are heeling well, his strong body once again ensuring swift recovery, and he had estimated to be ready to leave in a week's time.

Yet instead of being displeased by having to delay his plans he is oddly relieved. The armour is good, aye, but he could have had it made across the sea with the coin he now has. He throws another sideways look at Sansa and wonders if she knew that.

"I thank you kindly, Your Grace, and Lady Sansa. Any further service I can do," he talks to Robb but his eyes are on Sansa, "do not hesitate to name it."

She meets his gaze and all of a sudden he recognises _her_ behind the trappings of the noble lady – the girl who cooked his dinners and poured his drinks, who soothed his feverish brow and who fought for his life when he himself was helpless. A silent acknowledgment flashes between them before he turns his head back towards the king. _She knew._

A few more words are exchanged, and the audience is over.


	13. The Request

**_Summary: _**_She ducked under his arm and stepped inside and now stands in front of him, dressed in a simple dress of dark cloth. In the dying light of a fire he can see that her hair is unbound and flows across her shoulders wild and free._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

He swears himself a dullard, laughs derisively at his own antics, yet he can't help himself. As he goes around in the keep, he tries to go where _she_ might be, and his eyes follow her whenever she is around. _Lovesick fool, _he curses his weakness, but is powerless before it.

The king's publicly shown appreciation and acceptance of him makes his life easier, the others taking their cues from it. His shadow-guards leave him and he is free to come and go as he pleases. He takes the opportunity to spar with men-at-arms to get himself in shape, rides Stranger to make sure the valuable warhorse doesn't get frustrated in his idleness, goes to regular fittings for his new armour and enjoys his meals in the Great Hall with the rest of the castlefolk. Some curious young men who have heard of him and his reputation seek out his company and he tolerates it with good grace, sharing a few flagons of ale and old war-stories with them. About his travels with Sansa he doesn't talk.

He sees her often; walking around the keep with various members of her family or her friends, in the Great Hall during the meal times and curiously, in the training yards, where she comes frequently with other young ladies to observe the men sparring. Whenever she does that, he increases his efforts and his training partners suffer under his ferocious onslaught. He knows he is no better than bloody Ser Cley in prancing in front of a lady, but he has gone past caring.

Once she is accompanied by her brother and from the corner of his eye he sees them arguing. Her jaw is set on a firm line – not differently than it was on the day she convinced the Cerwyn heir of her true identity – and he wonders what it is that she has now set her heart on. Robb talks to her long and earnestly, and she responds with a long response of her own, her eyes set firmly on the young man. Eventually Robb sighs, raises his hands in submission and they leave, but not without both of them glancing at the yard where he is decimating his opponent with a wooden battle-axe. He finds it curious but pays no further heed to it.

She comes to talk to him one day after another such session, surrounded by an assembly of young ladies and snotty-nosed lordlings, including Ser Cley, who looks condescendingly down on him. Sandor feels himself uncomfortable and uncouth and the words they exchange are stilted. She enquires after his health and progress of her gift, and he replies to her curtly. The invisible wall has already grown between them – as he knew it would.

After she and her retinue have already turned away, however, she spins around and crosses the distance between them with a few steps. She talks to him in undertones so nobody else can hear her.

"If it pleases you, could you spend some time with my brother's commanders, showing them some of your skills in warfare? And if you should find it in you to share with my brother any knowledge about political alliances and players in the South, I would ask you to do that as well."

He looks at her, astonished. She blushes faintly but continues.

"I am well aware that you know much of those things, as you shared some of your views with me on our journey. I also understand that you may feel honour-bound to withhold information that may harm your former masters. Yet I would ask you to do it – for me."

Her blue eyes meet his grey, and although he is at a loss why _she_ should ask such thing from him, he knows he will do whatever she bids. Fleetingly he wonders if her brother put her up to it.

As if reading his thoughts she utters, "Robb doesn't know I am asking this – but if you agree, I will arrange for you and him to meet." She lowers her gaze but then raises it again, cocking her head on her side, waiting for his answer.

"I owe no allegiance to anyone in the South anymore. Aye, if you think it useful, I will talk to your brother, and train with his commanders," he mutters. She smiles brightly and for a moment the wall is down. Then she turns back to her friends, who have stopped and stare at them curiously, and in a flurry of silken hems she is gone.

* * *

She does as she said, and soon Sandor meets with Robb Stark and they have a man-to-man talk. The king is initially cautious and it is clear that the good treatment he has received so far has been first and foremost Sansa's doing - but as they talk, the young man starts to thaw. Sandor has no qualms about stating matters as they are; he has no need to sugar-coat how things stand in the South, nor desire to feed honeyed, false words to the young king in order to improve his own position. The young man listens and asks questions, and Sandor is impressed by his aptitude in strategy and ruling.

He also trains with the commanders of Northern troops and to his surprise finds them amicable fellows. Men of few words, most of them, sombre and serious, but once they get to know each other, there is warmth under the harsh exterior. Just as Sansa told him when they walked next to their wagon on dusty roads, when they still conversed as equals…

His days in Winterfell soon fall into a comfortable routine and only the progress of his new armour serves as a reminder that one day soon he is expected to ride out again. Yet his reflections on exciting new things he will get to see across the sea and his plans of making himself a new name in the best sellsword companies have somehow lost their lustre.

* * *

"Stay in Winterfell," she says. "Please," she adds after a heartbeat.

Sandor stares at her, still stunned by her unexpected arrival. He was already resting on his pallet after a long day when he heard faint scratching on his door. He stood up and went to open it despite thinking it to be only his imagination, expecting to see only empty corridor behind it. Yet _she_ was there.

She ducked under his arm and stepped inside and now stands in front of him, dressed in a simple dress of dark cloth. In the dying light of a fire he can see that her hair is unbound and flows across her shoulders wild and free.

In order to gain some time he goes to the fireplace and throws another log into it, and lights a tallow candle in the flames. As he turns around he becomes conscious of his own attire – as is his habit, he sleeps only in his smallclothes and seeing her eyes move across his body makes him uncomfortable and stirs him up at the same time. He really _should_ dress up, but her words halt him.

_Stay._ At that moment he realises how much he has wanted to hear it. He couldn't have brought himself to ask it from her or the king, knowing how a favoured guest, known to leave soon, can suddenly turn to an unwanted visitor if overstaying his welcome.

Yet here she is, uttering that word to him. _Stay._


	14. The Cloak

**_Summary: _**_She turns her back towards him obediently and he sets it across her shoulders, brushing her collarbone with is fingertips as he secures it with its crude clasp. Once covered, she turns to face him once more._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

He stares at her, not absolutely convinced he understood her meaning correctly.

"To do what?" he mutters.

"Anything. I know Robb thinks highly of you, thanks to the advice and honesty you have shown to him, and he could find you a position in his troops. Or," she looks away as if wanting to indicate how insignificant her other suggestion is, "you could become my sworn shield."

_Her sworn shield?_

"Why?" He wants to understand.

"I am a maiden of marriageable age and things are still unsettled in the north. I could use a protector."

"Your brother could easily raise a company of men to watch over you." _Why in hells am I trying to talk her out of her proposal?_

"I know he could, and he would. But I don't want anyone else. I trust only you, and know that you would have my best interest in your heart." She looks at him now, almost challengingly. _Is that supposed to be a question? _

"I am not one of your Northern folk, and have already deserted one master. What makes you think I wouldn't do it again?" He doesn't understand himself; what bloody fool is he to argue against her?

"I know you wouldn't. Joffrey was a poor master who treated you unkindly. I would treat you well; you would walk by my side and not behind me, and I would make sure you have everything you need." She steps closer and reaches for his arm. The touch of her fingers sends sparkles up his arm and her closeness shivers up his spine. He freezes and she must interpret it wrongly as her speech becomes keener.

"I know you might find it boring, looking over a woman. Yet you could still train with the troops and exercise Stranger, when I am sewing with the ladies or spending time with my mother and sister. And I would pay you well." Her upturned face peers at him, her eyes pleading. "I don't want to become one of those silly women who spend all their time inside and do nothing but gossip. I want to visit places, talk to people, help my brother to govern as much as I can. For that I need someone I can rely on to look over me. Would you be that person?"

She doesn't lift her hand from his arm and he stares at it. What she asks is his dreams come true. Yet why does he hesitate? To be so close to her, yet feel the invisible wall between them – could he bear it?

"What about when you get married? Your lord husband is unlikely to want an ugly dog around his lady wife." _Gods, why bring her marriage into this!?_

She shrugs her shoulders. "I have no plans to get married anytime soon. And when I do, it will be to a man of my choosing."

"Your kingly brother may have some other ideas. He needs allies and what better way to get them than through marriage."

"I thought you heard me on our last night together – I shall make my own decisions now," she responds, gazing at him with almost an amused expression. Sandor groans inwardly. _'…our last night together…'_ It sounds much more than what it was and raises disturbing thoughts inside his head.

They stand together like that for a while, in silence. He is running out of arguments, but then something crosses his mind.

"Why did you come now, here? You could have asked this from me during the day, called me to your presence instead of slipping into my room in the middle of the night. If someone should see you…"

She withdraws her arm and walks to his bed and sits down nonchalantly, sliding her hand across his bedding and examining the weave of the fabric.

"Night is more honest. During the day there are always others around me, or at least behind the door. You are also often occupied these days. And when we meet, there is something between us that wasn't there before."

He moves across the room and finally has his wits together enough to grab his breeches and pull them on. He doesn't bother with his tunic though – it is not as if she wouldn't have seen him thus for many times before.

"You felt it too, eh?"

"I did – and I didn't like it. But you see; here I am and we can talk like before. Although I am asking you to be a sworn shield to a lady, in private we can still be just you and me. And should you accept my offer, we could spend more time together and be like we used to be – almost." Her smile is broad and almost teasing.

"I guess we could. But why would you want to? Gods know I haven't treated you well." He is aware of how this would be a good time to ask her forgiveness for his past behaviour, but he can't force himself to do it.

"You have treated me better than you know. And you wouldn't harm me now, would you?" He could drown into those big blue orbs and the way they take him in, knowing all that is good and bad and in between in him. He swallows.

"No, I wouldn't hurt you." His eyes wander to her neckline and he sees a glimpse of sheer white fabric decorated with laces under her drab dress. _She is in my room wearing her fine nightshift in the middle of the night. Why?_

She gets up and walks to him and he can't help wondering if she had expected him to join her. There is something strange in her demeanour but he is too aware of the fragility of the situation to risk reading it wrong.

"What is your decision? Do you need more time to consider? Shall I come back tomorrow evening to hear your answer?"

As much he would like to see her like this again; free of her courtly adornments and her hair flowing, alone in his room, his decision is already made. Not that he consciously needed to make one; it was obvious from the moment she dropped her question. Yet he knows he has to think of her reputation even if she doesn't. She will be lucky to sneak back into her own rooms without anyone noticing once, and trying it twice would be just too risky.

"I will stay. I promise to be your sworn shield and protect you and look after you for as long as you want me to."

The smile she grants him is dazzling and he feels its warmth across the few paces that separate them. She makes a move as to reach for him but he has already turned away and gone to the door.

"You got your answer, so you better leave now before anyone sees you."

She follows him meekly but at the door she stops and wraps her arms around her body, shivering.

"It is cooler than I thought, and I have to walk across the battlements to go to my rooms unnoticed." At his quizzical look she smirks. "I grew up in this castle, you know. I know my way around secret passages and shortcuts, although not quite as well as Arya. Yet I would be grateful if you could borrow me your cloak for my return trip. I will send it back to you tomorrow with a trusted maid."

He acquiesces and gets his cloak, a dun-brown and simple mantle he bought on the road, but into which she has sewn yellow edging along the hem and front, and three crudely fashioned black dogs on the back. She had claimed she did it to ease her boredom on the slow journey and complained she would have been able to do much better work had she only had finer thread and cloth. Yet for a sellsword to wear fineries would have been ridiculous, so she had settled into what she had been able to secure from the merchant's wares.

She turns her back towards him obediently and he sets it across her shoulders, brushing her collarbone with his fingertips as he secures it with its crude clasp. Once covered, she turns to face him once more.

"I will put my life into your hands, and I promise that I will abide to my words and act with you honestly and true. I will send for you tomorrow to make our agreement official."

"I'll be here."

"Good night, Sandor."

"Good night, little bird."

And then she is gone.


	15. Sworn Shield

**Author's Notes: **Oooooh noooooo! My holiday is over! Over 300 emails waiting in my inbox, and myriad of things and events to catch up with when I go back tomorrow…hiss-boo! I really aimed to have this short story finished by this time, and yet here I am – they have not even confessed their feelings to each other… I _will_ persevere, though I can't promise as quick updates, even with these teeny-weeny chapters… (whose purpose is mainly to prevent me going back and endlessly fiddle with the text…). Thank you all for joining me so far on the journey, and let's hope that the on-going passage will be as smooth…

**_Summary: _**_During mealtimes in the Great Hall he sits in one of the lower tables and she high on the dais, but sometimes she scandalises people by coming to sit by his side. _

* * *

_**Sandor**_

The looks he receives when the new arrangement is announced publicly are mostly frosty; Ser Cley is heard to complain loudly how a worthy position such as this should have by rights been awarded to a Northerner rather than to a Westerner blown in by the wind. His complaints fall on deaf ears where King Robb is concerned, and gradually people get used to seeing Lady Sansa and her sworn shield together.

Sansa is true to her word: Sandor walks by her side at all times, not behind her, and she treats him with respect. In return he follows her wherever she goes and protects her with his very presence, bar when she is with her most intimate family.

Sansa is true to her words in another aspect as well: she is not content to spend her time in ladylike pursuits, but often goes to Wintertown to talk with its inhabitants, she interviews newcomers to the keep about their experiences and visits strongholds and homesteads in the vicinity of Winterfell. Sandor also often stands behind her in King Robb's council meetings, in which she has obtained his permission to partake, and hears her arguments about the matters regarding the future of the North.

He realises that even during their journey across the realm she had been thinking forward to the time she would be with her family again. He remembers the times she spent talking to people in the villages they passed, and now understands that she was gathering information about people's allegiances and where they stand, should they be required to choose a side.

King Robb is still considering his options; whether to kneel in front of King Stannis or to maintain the independence of the North. Sansa argues on behalf of the latter and has much information to support it. People are tired of southern kings deciding the fate of their lands – a problem especially acute now that many strongholds are without a ruler, their lords having succumbed in recent wars. Should King Robb be the one to decide to whom to bestow the lands, wed the widows or daughters or grant the guardianships of heirs? Or should it be King Stannis, who would likely confer the best opportunities to his own supporters from the South? Especially as many widows and even some maidens in the North are stubborn and want to wed a man of their own choosing anyway.

She requests him to move to a room closer to her chambers, and he is with her from the time he accompanies her to break her fast in the morning until the time he escorts her back after the evening meal. The invisible wall he was wary of does not return and they converse freely about all matters, important and less important alike. Sometimes she recruits him to partake in the games she plays for entertainment, and although he scoffs at them, he grudgingly agrees as long as they don't degrade his dignity too much. The sound that so startled him when he heard it in the merchant's camp – her pearly laughter – becomes a daily occurrence and he basks in its conviviality.

During mealtimes in the Great Hall he sits in one of the lower tables and she high on the dais, but sometimes she scandalises people by coming to sit by his side. They don't share a platter as they used to – that would be scandalous – but even so, sideway glances targeted at them speak volumes.

Sandor knows people in the keep are shocked by her behaviour and the free manners she has with him, but for once, he doesn't care.

* * *

"What have you done to my daughter?" Deep blue eyes surrounded by well-coiffed auburn hair bore into him unremittingly. Sandor flinches, knowing Lady Catelyn to be strong and not likely to be intimidated even by him – should he want to try. She reminds him of Cersei, a lioness protecting her cubs, but without Cersei's deviousness and ruthlessness.

She came to see him in the armoury, where he was putting his practice arms away after a hard bout of training. There is nobody else in the hall and he knows he can't avoid her or her question.

"What do you mean – I only serve her," he grunts.

"You know what I mean. She used to be a lady; dutiful and mindful of her obligations as a young maiden of a great house. Now she is free with her views, stubborn and opinionated. And she keeps you constantly as her companion. That is not seemly."

He knows she is referring to the rumours already circulating around the keep, and to several recent marriage proposals suggested to Sansa by her family; most of them to noble houses near the Neck or White Harbor, which would offer strategic advances to Robb. She told him about them and how she turned all of them down. He was glad to hear it and told her so.

"Do you mean to ask if I have spoiled your daughter?" He stops and turns fully towards Lady Catelyn. Although she is a tall woman, she has to crane her neck to look him in the face. _At least she has the decency to look at me,_ he thinks. Then he sneers at her.

"Aye, I have spoiled her. On the way to the North. And already before that, in King's Landing."

She draws her breath and her eyes widen. He feels almost sorry for her. These fine nobles – do they really think a scrap of flesh in woman's cunt is worth more than awakening them to the realities of the world?

"I spoiled her by telling her about how the world works. How all the pretty lessons her septa and her family taught her were worthless in this world ruled by the strongest. She didn't need _me_ to tell it all though; she lived through it in the Lannister court." He takes a breath and decides to put her out of her misery, seeing her obvious distress. She is Sansa's mother, after all. "But in case if you want to know if I have bedded her - no I haven't."

Lady Catelyn's relief is palpable and he wonders what she would have done had he truly taken her daughter's precious maidenhead. Yet he knows it isn't what matters to _him_; not to be her first, or even to lie with her, no matter how much he aches for her in his lonely room, thinking of her while getting his release. She is so much more to him than her cunt.

"I see that you refuse to understand my concerns. Just hear this: my daughter is precious to me, and her happiness is the most important thing. Should you stand in the way of it or harm her in any way at all, I will make sure you'll regret it." She brushes her already neat hair and swallows hard. He sees that what she says next is hard for her.

"Yet should you help her in promoting her safety and wellbeing, and be true to her, as she assures me you have done thus far, I thank you for it. As long as you are mindful of her position and don't lead her astray, I am glad that she has such a staunch protector by her side."

He is not sure how to respond so he only nods and holds her gaze. She turns around and walks away, her head held high. Despite his irritation he can't help admiring the woman.

He wonders if she will ask Sansa the same question. If she does, will she tell her about the nights they spent together, he taking his coarse liberties by her side and grinding his hardness against her? And what would Lady Catelyn read into it?


	16. The Wolves

**_Summary: _**_Then, some distance away straight in front of him on the path, in the light of a full moon, he sees a huge wolf. It stands almost twice as tall as a normal wolf, a size of a small horse._

* * *

**_Sandor _**

Stranger snorts softly and his muzzle presses lightly on Sandor's head as he crouches in front of the horse examining his front leg. It appears swollen and feels warm to touch, and he doesn't like the look of it a bit. They have not travelled far since the morning before his uneven gait prompted this further inspection.

He slides his hand down the leg, across the fetlock to the hoof and knows that there will be no more riding today. Stranger is more than just a horse to him; he is a trusted companion, and Sandor will not risk permanent injury to his leg because of his own eagerness to get back to Winterfell. No, they both have to walk, Stranger free of all weight to reduce the stress to the leg.

The group he is part of has spent the last few days on a mission in the Wolfswood to clear the area of bandits who have harassed travellers between Winterfell and Deepwood Motte. Sandor joined it at Robb's suggestion to learn more about the northern conditions and to partake in a real conflict instead of merely practice training to keep up his skills. That this task is also some kind of a test to him, he has no doubt. He only hopes he passes it.

A brief discussion with the group leader soon results in Sandor staying behind with his horse, the others continuing their journey. They are only half-a-day ride away, but he knows it will be a long day for him. He estimates it to be late in the evening when he will reach the keep at the pace he has to keep. He could leave the task to somebody more junior and ride ahead with the others – except that Stranger is not easily managed by anyone but him, and he doesn't want to leave his precious horse under a care of another anyway.

So they walk, Sandor leading Stranger by the rein.

Midday sees them deep in the woods that go on and on, ancient pine-trees extending their branches towards a bleary sky. The path – often too rudimentary to be called a road – winds its way across deeply forested hillsides and occasionally, across small streams of clear, cold water. He can hear and feel the animals of the woodland following their progress; a curious fox here, a timid hare there.

Twilight comes early and with it snowfall; white flakes tumbling down from the sky, adding to the snow already patchily covering the ground. He is patient and sets a slow but steady pace to be back in Winterfell as soon as possible; to be by _her_ side, where his place is.

Then he hears the wolves.

First a howl of a lone wolf, shortly joined by another, then another, and soon the whole forest echoes their melancholy voices. He shivers and the tales he has recently heard come to his mind uninvited. Smallfolk in Wintertown has been whispering about a pack of wolves, bigger than ever seen, which has slowly travelled up from the south and has been last heard in the area around Castle Cerwyn. People murmur it being led by a huge animal and more wolves joining the pack as it enters deeper in the north. He has dismissed this as a tall tale, as everybody knows that wolf packs don't tolerate others in their territory.

Yet as the howls increase and come closer, he can't prevent shudder going up his spine. From the sounds it appears that there are hundreds of wolves hiding under the cover of the trees – and they are getting closer.

He curses and reaches to grab his broadsword from his back, but his hand reaches only emptiness. _Bloody fucking hells!_ He remembers now how that very morning the buckle of his scabbard broke and he simply wrapped his sword into his bedroll and carried it on his saddle instead. After all, the mission had been accomplished, he was traveling with a large group and he didn't need to have his sword ready at all times.

And when he had stayed behind, he had handed Stranger's saddle and all it carried for the others to carry to ease his load. _Fuck!_ How could he have been so stupid?! It had been a mistake of a wet-behind-the-ears green squire, leaving him almost defenceless.

He searches his belt and finds a dagger, feeling some relief - that is better than nothing. Besides, the wolves may stay far away from them, not being interested in him and his horse if there is better prey to be found elsewhere.

He increases their pace but the voices come closer and closer, and soon surround them at all sides in an area where the sides of the path are wider and the forest edges some ten paces away. Stranger snorts and pulls his head, made nervous by the wolves. Sandor is starting to get worried.

Then, some distance away straight in front of him on the path, in the light of the full moon, he sees a huge wolf. It stands almost twice as tall as a normal wolf, a size of a small horse. _Direwolf! _Sandor has often seen Grey Wind with Robb and for a moment he wonders if this could be him. But no, Robb's wolf is true to his name by his colouring, whereas this one is grey-brown – and female. However, he doesn't have time to contemplate the identity of the direwolf further, as now he sees more wolves emerging to the clearing from the woods. They are mostly grey and of normal size, but here and there, as he glances around him and observes their approach, he sees some which are much bigger and have longer legs, larger heads and brownish hue in their fur. _Must be the offspring of the big one._

The direwolf stands tall, staring at him with its ears and nose up, its fangs bared, its tail sticking up. She knows she is strong and in charge and her yellow eyes drill into him without flinching. The other wolves start to creep closer and Sandor has hard time holding Stranger, his eyes rolling in his head so that their whites are visible. Horses are afraid of wolves and Stranger is no exception. Unlike in any other battle, where his horse is one of his best weapons and as deadly as the man who rides him, in this situation Sandor can't count on him.

_Buggering, bleeding hells!_ He tries to think. This pack is not an ordinary wolf pack, he realises. It is not after prey for feed – no, the leader appears to be specifically targeting him. The weight of the dagger in his hand feels good and he squeezes it harder. He can take some of them down with it – but not all, and possibly not the big one. If they all attack at the same time, his chances to fight his way out of it are between slim and non-existent.

Again he curses. The irony of the situation doesn't escape him; he now serving the Starks, only to be brought down by their sigil…He grimaces. Just as he has found a purpose for his miserable life, a reason making it worth living, is this his fate – to be torn to pieces by a savage pack of wolves? The thought of never seeing Sansa again hurts. Some say that when facing a certain death a man sees his whole life flashing in front of his eyes. Yet what he sees is flashes of the life that started when he first saw _her:_ the excited little girl in the Winterfell courtyard when he rode there in Robert Baratheon's entourage; the naive maiden caught in the webs of courtly intrigues; the broken girl suffering in the hands of Joffrey's thugs; the common sellsword's woman on the slow road to the North - and then the proud and spirited lady back in her true position. _Will she miss me when I'm gone?_

Staying in his spot he removes Stranger's bridle and bit and lets him loose. If he is lucky, he may still escape. Even with his bad leg, he can still outrace the wolves – if he can run past them first. Out loud he says, "Go boy, take your chances. If you get through this…" _What? Go to Winterfell and tell her my last thoughts were about her?_

He snorts and crouches slightly, ready to tackle whatever comes. He decides not to give up easily; no, he will take down as many of his attackers as he can before they tear his throat open. The direwolf has not let him out of her focus and now she growls; a deep, ominous growl that makes the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. She starts to walk towards him, head low.

Then he hears a voice – the voice of the one person he most wanted to see again just a few seconds ago, and whose presence now breaks him out in a cold sweat. _What the hells is she doing here?_


	17. The Third Time

**Author's Notes: **Thank you once again to all you lovely people who have submitted such lovely comments and encouragement and told me about my stuff-ups! I hear you saying _'Finally!'_ after this chapter...pheew, getting there!

**_Summary: _**_Without warning he loses strength from his legs and unable to stop it, falls to the ground. He feels dizzy and kneeling on his all fours he lets his head fall down between his arms._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sansa's voice is loud and clear, approaching from behind the direwolf. He can't quite pick up what she is saying, but the direwolf pricks her ears and turns to look over her shoulder.

He sees her then, an ethereal sight when moonlight hits her, wrapped in silver furs and her long hair spilling from under her hood as she walks slowly towards him. He looks behind her, expecting to see others; horses and soldiers with weapons raised to thwart the attack. Yet all he sees is a lone, reluctant horse she is pulling behind her, fighting her grip with nostrils flaring at the scent of the wolves.

A dread unlike anything he has experienced before takes him into its grip. He wants to run, wants to shout, wants to warn her of the danger, but is afraid that any sudden movement on his part will trigger an all-out assault. His frustration extreme, all he can do is to look on helplessly as the woman, who means more to him than even his own life, walks towards peril.

"Nymeria, you know me well – listen to me now. Leave us, take your brothers sisters and go." Her voice is soft and cooing, filled with tenderness as she gazes at the huge animal. _Nymeria?_ Something tugs at the back of his mind and then he remembers: the direwolf of the little sister. After the incident at the inn by the Trident she disappeared and he had thought her long gone, back to the wild. _As she is. She may have been a pet once, but after years in wilderness she is unlikely to heed humans anymore. _

Yet Sansa approaches, extending her hand, of which she has removed her glove. Her horse has finally won her fight for release and after pulling herself loose, turns around and bolts away in fright. Sansa talks to the direwolf in low soothing voice, words only the two of them can hear. Nymeria has turned fully around and changed her posture; her ears are now tilted to the side and her mouth is open, tongue lolling out. Her tail is lowered and is swishing unsurely sideways. Slowly, very slowly she creeps towards Sansa, one step at the time, her head lowered. Eventually the girl and the beast meet, and after cautiously sniffing her outstretched hand the direwolf gives it a tentatively lick.

_Gods! _The relief that washes over him is enormous and he releases the breath he didn't even realise he was holding. The girl scratches the direwolf behind the ears and the tail that showed signs of uncertainty before is now protruding up again, wagging. _She wants to play!?_ Sansa kneels to the ground and rubs the animal around her chest and throat, which she exposes to her willingly. They stay like that for a while, Sansa whispering to the ear of the giant animal. Then she stands up and points her hand towards the woods. Nymeria turns and runs towards the other wolves, making yapping sounds as she goes. Her pack looks upon her with raised ears and as she runs deeper into the forest, they follow.

Soon only Sandor, Stranger and Sansa are left in the clearing.

She runs towards him, asking worriedly if he is hurt. The relief he felt has inexplicably turned to anger; he is furious at her for risking her life like that.

"What the fucking hells were you thinking, girl, coming here like this!? Alone, in the middle of the night, and when seeing these fucking wolves, not having more wit than a bug to turn away and run like seven devils were behind you - but instead come and walk _towards _them!?" His voice is hoarse and loud and he realises he is shaking.

She looks as if he had slapped her in the face, her concerned expression changing to wounded, her eyebrows furrowing and lips pouting.

"I came to you…when the others came back and told that you have to walk back, I wanted to surprise you by coming to meet you. I know my family wouldn't have approved so I stole away from the keep by myself."

"But what about the fucking wolves!? Surely you heard them before you came here? If you had more sense in your head than a flea, you would have known to turn around then at the latest!" Without realising, he has gripped her shoulders and is shaking her in his distress.

"Yes, I heard the wolves and knowing you were here alone I _couldn't_ have turned around!" She is getting almost as angry as he. "Besides, I have heard about this pack, and how it is led by a direwolf. I knew it _had _to beNymeria, and I thought I can talk her around. I have known her since she was a puppy; I used to tickle her belly and she used to chase me and Lady…" Her features contort and he can see tears starting to pool in the corners of her eyes.

"But you couldn't be sure! She might as well have ripped you to shreds, you silly girl!" The last thing he wants to do is to hurt her, but just the thought of her losing her life so mindlessly burns within him still. She pulls herself away from his grip and takes a few steps back, throwing a livid look at him.

"Is this the thanks I get for saving your life?! She didn't know _you_, and you surely would have been devoured by the pack, leaving just a few scraps of bone as the only thing for me or anyone else to find!"

Then it hits him – and it hits him hard. It feels like cold steel through his belly and he can't help but coil. _Third time! This is the third time she has saved me!_

Without warning he loses strength from his legs and unable to stop it, falls to the ground. He feels dizzy and kneeling on his all fours he lets his head fall down between his arms. _The prophecy! It is true…it must be true…_ He forces himself to breath in and out, slowly, while trying to clear the fog that engulfs him.

_"The fire in your soul, and in the soul of the one who will heal you, and the fire in her hair." _

_"Three times you step up and rescue her, and she steps up three times to save you." _

_"You will find a great love; a love so strong it will change the fate of the realm." _

He has certainly been much healed from the hate and bitterness that blackened his soul before – by her. Her hair – as bright as fire, but instead of cruel burn, offering only silken smoothness. Three times he rescued her, and now she has rescued him three times in return. _Great love…_ He is still sometimes unsure about what _love_ is, and if what he feels towards her is it, but from the way she fills his heart and his every waking moment, and from how he only wants what is best for _her_, even if it comes with a price for himself – he knows.

_"Fate of the realm, lordship of vast lands, sons and daughters…" _He doesn't know about them nor does he care; all he can think of is how this girl, this woman, must be his destiny after all – despite all his denials and refusals. He feels bile rising in his throat and leans forward ready to throw up, staring blindly at the heather and lichen covering the ground.

Then he feels her warm hands brushing against his brow, gently swiping his long hair aside from his face and holding it back. She is kneeling next to him, all her anger and hurt gone, only worry etched on her face. _Fuck!_

He swallows hard and is able to keep the contents of his stomach down, and the nausea soon recedes. That she should be there for him, to support him in such humiliating situation, makes him groan silently.

A few more deep breaths and the world comes into focus once more. He raises himself to his haunches and searches her with his eyes. She is there, unceremoniously sitting on the ground and apprehensively observing him.

"Sandor…what is it? Are you hurt after all, did they get to you? Please, tell me!" she pleads.

Sandor lifts his arm and extends it towards her, his fingers shaking. She looks at it questioningly but then puts her own small hand into his. He squeezes it and whispers hoarsely, "Sansa…" He has no more words, as how could he explain to her what just happened, what he just realised? He shakes his head and feels some of his strength returning.

Yet he doesn't release his grip but pulls her closer; insistently, but ready to let her go should she show any signs of a struggle. She doesn't, but instead leans closer, willingly. He looks at her face and her lips, clearly visible in moonlight, and thinks of the time when he first thought about kissing her. _Bloody hells! She can deny me if she wants, but I have to try._

Still she doesn't resist as he presses his lips on hers and tastes her for the first time.


	18. Kisses

**_Summary: _**_She sighs into his mouth and grasps his waist harder – he must be doing _something_ right then? He thinks he hears her whisper "Finally", but can't be sure._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

He always thought she would be sweet to kiss – but the feel of her soft lips, the taste of her, the way she pushes against him and yields to his touch overwhelms him in a way he couldn't have anticipated. He tries to be gentle, tries to be _gallant -_ whatever that is – but all he knows is that he has to strain to contain the urgency their lips meeting builds inside him. He brushes his tongue across her lips and feels them opening, her tongue slipping out to meet his. _Damn!_

Breathless, he pulls himself away. Her eyes are closed but at the loss of their connection she opens them and he drowns into their deep pools once again.

"Sansa…" he starts, then stops. She hasn't moved but rests comfortably in his embrace, legs bent under her, arms sneaked around his waist. He can't feel much of her body, as wrapped as they both are in heavy clothing, but he feels her hands and how they play against his back, sliding up and down and fisting his padded gambeson.

"Mmmm?" she sighs, then lifts her head. Her face is flushed and the corners of her mouth rise in a shy smile. He is speechless once again and would only want to look at her and savour the moment, but he also realises the ground under them is cold and the patches of snow covering it are starting to melt under them.

"Sansa, we better get up before we freeze our arses," he mutters. Her eyes flash and at the sight of it he can't resist but leans down and demands her mouth to himself once again. Maybe it is the cold dampness creeping up his legs or the realisation that she must feel the same, but this time he is not as intense but gentler, pressing against her lips more softly. He hopes he would have cared to learn about kissing before, as he feels woefully inadequate in this foray into an area so alien to him. Aye, he has fucked dozens of women, but not caring how _they _felt. He never purposefully wanted to _hurt_ them either – he knew there were monsters who deserved his wrath much more than the pleasure women making out their pitiful living. Yet the thought of measuring his own actions with a view of pleasing a woman has always been foreign to him.

She sighs into his mouth and grasps his waist harder – he must be doing _something _right then? He thinks he hears her whisper "Finally", but can't be sure. Yet the pragmatic part of his mind has started to work its way around their situation. They are still some distance away from Winterfell, they are sitting on a cold ground, they have only one horse between them - one that is lame - and she has sneaked out of the keep without anyone knowing. Gently he pulls himself away once again and untangles her hands.

"Little bird, we better start moving. We have some distance to cover and your horse gone, we need to walk." She gives in and moves away reluctantly, gathering her skirts and climbing onto her feet. She brushes snow from her dress and pulls up the hood that has fallen down behind her back. Then she looks around the clearing and seeing Stranger a small distance way away, broadens her smile. On their slow journey the girl and the horse learned to live with each other by necessity, and by now she is one the few people Stranger allows to touch him. The horse is looking at them, his ears pricked up in alertness and curiosity.

He climbs up as well, suddenly ashamed of the strong reaction that saw him on his knees in the first place. He whistles softly and Stranger comes to him, letting him bridle him again. One hand on his reins, the other curled around Sansa's shoulders, they start to walk. The silence that falls between them doesn't feel oppressing, but on the contrary, comfortable. It is as if they have said their piece and there is nothing more to add to it.

* * *

They stroll ahead and after a while see Sansa's horse, who has stopped to nibble scarce blades of grass sticking out of the snow. She lets them catch her easily and for the rest of the journey they ride two-a-horse, Sandor holding Sansa in his arms as if she were a precious treasure – as she is, to him. He tells her about the wolves and how much he feared for her life when he saw her approaching; she tells him of her distress when she heard the howls and realised that he was being surrounded. He admonishes her, but tenderly, this time. She tells him she couldn't have done otherwise, as the thought of leaving him to the wolves was unthinkable to her. He tells her he is sorry that he shouted at her. She tells him how afraid she was seeing him crouched on the ground, and asks what caused it. He mutters something about shock, knowing how feeble it sounds even to his own ears. A man like him shaken because of some wolves?! Bah!

He knows he has to tell her about the prophecy sooner or later, but at this time he only wants to hold her and enjoy the new intimacy that has grown between them.

They kiss again; shyly, compassionately, unhurriedly, she turning her head across her shoulder to meet his. Every kiss is a revelation and a miracle to him.

* * *

They reach Winterfell well past midnight. They agree that she should sneak in the same way she came, using her secret passages, whereas he will walk in through the main gate. He dismounts and looks up at her, sitting on the horse. They have no need to discuss what will happen when they next meet, or when that will be. What transpired between them this night has made things clear – clear as ice. She leans down and he touches her face with his large hand and presses one last kiss on her lips.

Once inside the keep, he rouses stable boys and tasks them to prepare a poultice to Stranger's leg. Only after it is done and he has satisfied himself that his faithful companion is well looked after, he goes to seek his own meal and rest. A drowsy boy from the kitchens brings him bread, cheese and some cold stew. He eats slowly, carefully, savouring every bite. A sense of satisfaction envelopes him and despite the long day walking in the cold, he feels contented. When he reaches his room and undresses, he finds himself grinning stupidly. _Gods, dog, settle down!_


	19. Confessions

**_Summary: _**_His heart skips a beat when he wonders if the prophecy she heard was different to his. Mayhap he was wrong after all and everything he thought to have been following the prediction, were only coincidences after all?_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Despite his qualms about whether all that happened was just a figment of his imagination, he taps on her door the next morning as normal. Her maid opens the door, but instead of Sansa joining him in the corridor as usual, she beckons him to enter. She sends the maid away, asking breakfast to be brought into her chambers.

She looks tired and he feels a pang for what he has put her through. Yet when she lays her eyes at him they shine brightly and some of her weariness goes away.

"Sandor," she breaths. "It was not a dream after all."

"More like a nightmare, by rights," he mutters back, but takes her outstretched hand. She looks at him admonishingly.

"You really have to start accepting compliments better. For me it was _like _a dream, a dream finally come true. You don't know how long I have wanted you to do that." She pats the place next to her to indicate he should sit down. He does, the dainty couch creaking under his weight.

"To do what?" He hears what she says but the meaning of it is so utterly absurd that he wants to hear it again.

"To kiss me, you big oaf," her smile turns into very unladylike giggle and she puts her arms around his neck. He responds by putting his hand behind her head and grasping her hair into his fist, drawing her face close to his. He doesn't kiss her, yet, but observes her close up, the way her breathing becomes faster, her giggles die on her lips and her eyes stare back at him, unflinchingly. It is she who starts the kiss, this time, and the magic of the previous night returns to them as powerfully as then.

After an indeterminable time they pull apart, dishevelled and heaving.

"Why now? What happened that made you see the inevitable? I swear I was planning to sneak into your room once again, climb into your bed and make you understand what has been obvious to me for a while now. Was it the wolves, the threat of dying?" She leans against him and whispers against his chest, her nimble fingers playing at the front of his tunic.

He can't believe his ears. _Sneak into my bed?_ Yet believe he must. He takes a big breath and knows there is something he must tell her. If the prophecy _does_ involve her some way, if there is even a _chance_ that she is the one, he can't hide it from her.

They are interrupted by a knock on the door from the servants bringing in her morning meal. Sandor gets up and stands on guard while a table is set before her, but after the intruders have left, he resumes his position next to her. She eats, feeding small morsels to him with her own hands. When she picks a juicy plum, grown in Winterfell glass-gardens, and offers it to him, he takes both the plum and her fingers into his mouth and sucks her fingertips gently. She giggles again and feeds him another, and another, and another, until the bowl is empty. Never has he tasted fruit so sweet.

* * *

Yet he can't put his confession off much longer, so after the meal he tells her everything, starting from the chance meeting with the old crone on that fateful day, and the words she told him - as much as he can remember. He doesn't leave anything out, not even the part about the lordships or sons and daughters, but remarks that all divinations are notoriously difficult to decipher and don't often come true literally.

She listens to him, asking a question here and there, counting herself the times they have saved each other. She tells him she always knew that he acted on the battlements because he knew what he was about to do to Joffrey.

Then an understanding illuminates her face and she gasps.

"So it was the _prophecy_ you were prattling about in your fever! Originally I thought… that you had a woman hidden somewhere, and children with her…" She blushes. "Yet it must have been _our_ children you were talking about; the sons and daughters _I_ will carry for you."

"Careful little bird, don't move too fast. What did I just say about prophecies, about them not to be taken too literally?" he barks. He doesn't want her to start thinking of it as something she _has _to do, in order to fulfil some stupid prediction.

All the while they are holding onto each other, he leaning against the back of the couch, she nestling against his side in the crook of his arm, her legs folded under her so that her knees rest on top of his thigh. While they talk, she fiddles with the hem of his tunic and he unconsciously rubs her shoulder with the pad of his thumb, his other hand resting on top of her knee. She raises her head to look at him now, a strange expression on her face.

"I heard a prophecy once as well. I was but a child, just about ten at the time. There was a travelling fair in Wintertown and I went there with Robb and Theon. While they were playing a game of bow and arrows, I sneaked away and found myself in a tent that sounds much like the one you described. And the woman sitting there…she was old and wizened and just like you portrayed her. She was with someone when I came, so I just stood quietly in the corner when she told him things about his destiny; that he would farm fruitful meadows and marry her childhood sweetheart. When the man left, she suddenly addressed me, without even turning around to look at me."

Sandor shifts his position to hear her better. Could it have been the same crone? His heart skips a beat when he wonders if the prophecy she heard was different to his. Mayhap he was wrong after all and everything he thought to have been following the prediction, were only coincidences after all?

"She asked me to make sure my children would be good to her people. I was startled – after all, I was barely ten. When I asked her what children, she said," she wrinkles her brow in an effort of trying to remember, "_'your son the lord, your son the wanderer, your daughter the queen and your daughter the warrior'_." She squeezes his hand hard, so hard it almost hurts. "You see: four children I shall carry, two sons and two daughters. Just like your prophecy says."

* * *

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. _This_ even he cannot dismiss as a happenchance!

"When I asked her who will be my lord husband and how shall I meet him, Robb came in and scooped me away. She never had a chance to tell me…" She is angry, seemingly disappointed that she had been cheated of knowing her destiny. He takes her hand and kisses the tops of her fingers, feeling clumsy doing it. His hand is so big and calloused, hers so small; he doesn't even know how to hold it properly.

"Who were her people then? I never even got to know that." She looks up at him, expecting him to know all the answers. Luckily this one he does.

"I suppose she meant wildlings. Said she came from beyond the Wall. Told me too to be kind to folk beyond the Wall; said that if I am true to them, they will be true to me."

"Wildlings…" Sansa stares ahead for a while and frowns. "My brother Jon saw them when he ventured beyond the Wall himself. He says in his letters to Robb that they are normal people, just like you and I, and not monsters. They are afraid of something and are moving towards the South, towards us." The she stirs. "Yet, I wish I had had more time with her! Had she answered my question, we would have found each other already a long time ago!

"Shush, it wasn't meant to be. Had she told you your man would be an ugly, god-denying, cold-blooded killer, not a ser or a lord, you think you had believed her? Or sought a man like that for yourself? No, you wanted a handsome prince." She flinches and he knows he had it true.

"I was young and stupid when I fell for Joffrey. Had I known he was not to be my destiny, maybe…" Without finishing her sentence she starts again in a tone that betrays her astonishment, "I had all but forgotten my prophecy. Not even when I listened to you moaning about queens and lords as your children, did I make the connection. Besides," she glances at him from the corner of her eye, "I wasn't ready to think of those things anyway. Not then."

"When were you ready for me, little bird?" _Ready for me?_ _Is she? _He hadn't meant it to sound so crude, but now that the notion has entered his head, he can't help wondering what else she may want besides kisses and embraces.


	20. A Good Man

**_Summary: _**_He sits dumbly on his place. Never has he been called _'a good man'._ From the way she speaks of him it is as if he were Barristan-bloody-Selmy, a white knight in armour so shiny he could see his own reflection in it – should he want to._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Suddenly many incidents from their past surface in his mind and take completely new meanings. She touching him when she thought him passed out drunk…not maidenly curiosity after all? The time when she dragged their bedding together, claiming it to be for warmth… That night among Ser Cley's troops; again she had presented good reasons for her actions, but was that all there was? And in the morning, when he had first thought of kissing her… Then something more recent comes to his mind; a situation where he might have read her for true had he cared to follow his instincts instead of being overwhelmed by uncertainty and dread about doing the wrong thing.

"When you came to ask me to become your sworn shield… you sat on my bed, in the middle of the night, in your fineries. Were you ready for me then?" He can't help gaining some mischievous satisfaction from seeing her embarrassment.

"I was ready to _think_ of those things," she sidesteps his inquiry. "Foremost I wanted to make sure that you were not leaving anywhere."

"And why was that?"

"Do you need to ask? Or do you mean to ask why is it that we have come to this?" She looks at him searchingly and Sandor regrets the impulse that made him blurt out the question. He has acknowledged for a while that for some unfathomable reason she seems to accept him and his coarse ways, even _want_ him by her side. And now, she so willing to kiss and touch him – what does it matter why?

"I was always aware that you were not such a horrible person as people made you out to be. I knew you had suffered a lot; you told me so yourself and I could see the rest with my own eyes. _Why_ you chose to tell me, that time, I never knew, but I felt it was something special. As a gift you gave me – although you probably think that foolish!" Her voice is steady and she stares at her lap. "And when you saved me all those times without seeking to claim a reward or favour, I knew you were different."

He doesn't want to move or break the moment and stills his instinct to reach out and touch her hand again.

"And then when we travelled and you looked after me and didn't do as many men in your position might have done… Oh, I know what fate awaits women in the company of men when they have no family to protect them. I also understood very well that you had no real reason to bring me home; you owed nothing to the Starks, you didn't necessarily need the money and even _I_ knew that you wanting to become, or being accepted as a Stark retainer would have been extremely unlikely, for many reasons. And yet you brought me home untouched and in good health."

She looks at him now and he is captivated by her sincerity. He sees no traces of a coquettish woman or a flirting young maiden testing her skills in seduction.

"Yet all of this is what any true knight could have done. Had such a man taken me home, I would have been grateful for him and undoubtedly I would have been fond of him too – but nothing more. Yet you are _not_ a knight, you don't do what is expected of you by the society or the codes of chivalry. You do what you do because you _want_ to. And there is the difference. Moreover, I already told you once that you are the only person who has ever treated me with true respect as a person, not only as a…" she seeks for a suitable expression," …bloody noble!"

He is amused by her use of a word that so poorly fits into her beautiful mouth, but is touched by her attempt to express herself in a way mimicking his own manners.

"You saw me as _me_, not as the daughter of House Stark, or even just as a woman. I am called pretty, and from what I have lived through I know there are many men willing to have me as their…companion. Yet you saw through all that too." She blushes slightly, the colour of her face only slightly heightened after the flush raised by their earlier fumbling embraces. "And you _are_ a good man, I can see and hear it in all you do, although you may hate to admit it. When I was a little girl my father and mother told me that someday I would marry a man who is brave, kind and wise – and now that I have met him, what else can I do but to fall for him?"

* * *

He sits dumbly on his place. Never has he been called '_a good man'._ From the way she speaks of him it is as if he were Barristan-bloody-Selmy, a white knight in armour so shiny he could see his own reflection in it – should he want to. Part of him protests against her words and he opens his mouth to refute them, but then he stops. He remembers the way his fellow Kingsguard knights used to look at her, and the rude comments they made. They certainly saw her as a cunt and teats to be ravished rather than a highborn lady after Joffrey had abandoned her, although she was still way too noble for the likes of them. He wonders if any of them ever looked her in the eye, rather than at her teats and her hips. As for the men of her own station; the way how Ser Cley appraised her was measuring her worth in improving his own position, should he have been successful in his attempts to make her fall in love with him as her heroic saviour.

Not knowing what else to do – or say - he turns sideways and lifts his long legs on the couch, pulling her to rest between them. He wants to enclose her in his arms and convey that way what he may not be able to express in words. She acquiesces and shifts closer, her bottom resting against his groin. He can't help it but feels himself stiffen at the sensation. _Shit! _This was not his intention, to be crude and licentious in a situation as tender as this. He tries to make some distance between them, but she resists his attempts and sits still, her posture slightly more rigid.

"Ah, I remember this too. I though you very rude at the time, behaving so ungallantly when lying next to a lady." Her voice is strained and again he tries to move – as strange as it was to hear her say all those good things about him, it had been oddly satisfying too. This was _not_ the time to show her that she had been wrong after all. Yet she doesn't budge.

"After a while I didn't feel so much like a lady anymore," she murmurs, and he stops his attempts to shift. Suddenly he hates the man he was then, the sullen man who only wanted to goad the girl whose only crime was to be too enticing, too good for him. The apology comes to his lips more easily this time.

"I am sorry, Sansa. I… shouldn't have behaved as I did. You think too highly of me - I am a brute, nothing else into it." He draws a deep breath. "I cursed you sometimes, cursed why we didn't come to think of another story to explain our partnership so we wouldn't have to lie together. Yet you didn't deserve the way I behaved."

She wiggles in her spot, pressing herself firmer against him. The sensation of her curvy backside against his cock is way too distracting and he tries to direct his thoughts elsewhere. _Stranger…his leg looked much better this morning. Mayhap I should take him out for a light walk later in the day?_

"Please don't apologise; I told you I soon let go of my ladylike reservations. At first I didn't know what you were doing – it sounded as you were hurting. I was _worried _about you, would you believe it?" She has stopped moving and is now leaning her back fully flush against his chest. She looks over her shoulder and although she is smiling, he sees a tinge of nervousness in it.

"Then I spoke with the women I met on the road, serving maids and farmers daughters. They laughed at me at first but when I told them you were my first man, they told me many things about men and their ways… Gods! When I came back to you I was sure you would see right through me, I was so embarrassed!" She presses her face against her upturned palms as if in shame, but he sees her peeking between her fingers at his direction.

"Why didn't you put me in my place? I know now you could have done it – seven hells, had you addressed me as you did poor hapless Ser Cley, I would have slinked into a corner for sure!" He chuckles, seeing her false modesty for what it is, twinkling of her eyes telling him she is nowhere as ashamed as she pretends to be.

"And what, lose the best part of my night!" She also laughs out loud and he places his hands around her waist and lifts her up, high up. She squeals in delight and laughs and kicks and attempts to release herself, in vain. Sandor's heart swells and he hopes this moment would never end.


	21. Doubts

**Author's Notes:** Once again I am blown away by your very nice comments! The holiday is truly and well gone _(what holiday, she says and blinks her eyes in vague remembrance)_ and many things are taking up my time – but I swear I will follow this through!

**_Summary: _**_"Did it look like I wanted to make you fall for me? Is that how they tell those bloody sers and noble young men to charm a lady: curse at her, make her cook your meals and clean your clothes, insult her at every opportunity and oh yes, talk vulgarly in front of her and if you have a chance to get close, fuck yourself in her presence and grope her as she were a cheap whore waiting for a customer. Aye, I can see that every noble lady would love to get the attention of anyone attending those lessons in charm!"_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Nothing in his life is as it was before. The days in her company have changed their content, the two of them stealing moments whenever they can to explore the new world whose only inhabitants they are; the explorers in alien shores. Every kiss is an exhaustive excursion to enticing new territories, every touch an electrifying adventure into new, thrilling regions and every look a startling discovery of never-before-seen sights of beauty and splendour.

He still spars with the other men as usual and rides with them when needed - or by himself - once Stranger has recovered from the strain in his leg. Sansa sews with the ladies and attends her letters and books with Lady Catelyn, Arya or the Maester of the Keep, and continues her visits and meetings with smallfolk and his brother's retainers as before. Yet they both know that what they really are living for are those stolen moments in her chambers or in the forest, hiding amongst the trees along novel routes they take when traveling outside the castle. Once they embrace each other daringly in an empty storeroom near the kitchens, when the temptation becomes too much after Sansa runs her hand down his thigh while walking along the corridor, and to his muttered threats of how she should keep her hands where they belong while they are in public, she only grins and sways her hips and asks him challengingly "Or what?".

* * *

He knows it is madness, knows it can't continue. He tells her so, and she silences him with her kisses and he soon forgets what he was saying.

The nights belong to them too, at least in their minds, as they can't spend them together – that would be too risky. Besides, he isn't sure whether she would be ready for that in any case, despite her bravado and daring. Their touches are still rather innocent, their other discoveries and feels making them content. Moreover, she is still a maid and Sandor is mindful of that. Yet nothing prevents them thinking about each other; he following the same pattern he has so thoroughly followed for such a long time already, imagining her when pleasuring himself. The big difference is that now instead of only imagining her soft body and its contours, he has actually _touched_ her with his own hands and can bring those caresses back to his mind so vividly that it is almost as if she was there with him, on his pallet. _Almost._

And the kisses – he can't explain to himself how such a simple act that always seemed to him so meaningless can be so sweet and intoxicating when it is with _her._ Sometimes he feels as if he is trying to catch-up with all the kisses he has missed in his life; with her, here and now.

He senses how his reservedness melts away when he is with her, responding to her earnestness and trust. Hence the disturbance, when it comes, is so unexpected.

* * *

They sit in Sansa's solar, she resting on his lap, when after the first furtive kisses she draws herself away and looks disconcerted. Her face bears an expression he has learned to mean that she wants to ask something, but for one or another reason hesitates.

"Out with it, girl," he says good-heartedly, toying with a strand of her hair. She looks at him, bites her lip and asks the strangest question.

"Why did you fall for me? Why are you here, kissing me and holding me?"

He startles. _What kind of a question is this?_ He thinks it to be blatantly obvious that he longs after her, wants her, _loves_ her – although the exact words have not been spoken.

"What do you mean? Do you want me to list all your good qualities as reasons why I have followed you across the realm? Aye, I can do that. Although to be frank I don't know where to start." He still thinks this is some kind of coquettishness on her part, young woman wanting to hear flattering words about her charms. Hells, he has no objections to fulfil that wish!

Yet she stays his arm he is about to curl around her neck. "No, tell me why you are _really_ here?" Her eyes are sharp and scrutinise him intently.

"Why do you ask? Where does this question come from?" He shifts, frowning as he looks at her. She stands up and sits opposite him, never dropping her eyes away from him.

"You heard the prophecy long, long time ago. You knew what to expect; a redheaded girl with whom you would fall in love with, marry, get a lordship and four children, isn't that it?" He stares at her, still not quite following what she is trying to say. Her eyes narrow.

"When you met me, did you _try_ to make the prophecy to work? Is that why you rescued me, why you took me away from King's Landing? You knew I was the daughter of one of the oldest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms. Did you see the logic in it; making me fall in love with you and getting all you were expecting to get by that?"

He curses, not realising at first that instead of doing it quietly in his mind, he actually swears out loud.

"Bloody oath, girl! What is this madness? Didn't I tell you how long I dismissed the whole fucking prophecy as nonsense? A crazy drivel spewed out by an old lunatic whose head was probably as full of bird-shit as her tent! Didn't I?" His tone softens slightly when he sees her still staring at him, tenseness visible all over her body.

"I didn't want to have anything to do with you, at first. I thought you were just an ignorant, empty-headed highborn's spawn. Why did I save you? Fuck if I know myself. I just couldn't let them have you…" his voice fades away when he remembers how hard and how long he tried to resist her and everything she represented. His weakness, that's what she was. He feels frustration taking over him.

"Did it look like I wanted to make you fall for me? Is that how they tell those bloody sers and noble young men to charm a lady: curse at her, make her cook your meals and clean your clothes, insult her at every opportunity and oh yes, talk vulgarly in front of her and if you have a chance to get close, fuck yourself in her presence and grope her as she were a cheap whore waiting for a customer. Aye, I can see that every noble lady would love to get the attention of anyone attending those lessons in charm!"

_Is that what she thinks? That I too am after only her position and her inheritance? That I _planned_ the whole damn thing?_ What a mockery, after all he went through trying to ignore her and the bloody prophecy.

* * *

When he glances at her, still fuming indignantly, something in her demeanour catches his eye. He has seen that same thing before: it is _fear_ in her eyes. That, and anxiety and uncertainty. Suddenly it all becomes clear to him and for a moment he doesn't know whether he should weep or curse or laugh. Instead, he sighs and stretches his hand to her, slowly and carefully, holding her eyes in his.

"Sansa, _why_ do you really ask this from me? Don't tell me that you for a moment think that I _planned_ this whole thing. That I want you only to fulfil some damned divination?"

Her posture relaxes a bit and she takes the prodded hand and squeezes it weakly. He pulls her to him and she follows, albeit slowly. He places her back on his lap and lifts her chin with his forefinger. She raises her eyes and in them he sees his whole life; his soul, his heart, his wishes and desires, all reflected back to him from the depths of her big blue eyes. And the emotions so deep that had he not already lost himself to her, they would have frightened him.

"Little bird, hear me, and hear me well. I don't give a rat's arse about your name, or your house, or your noble blood. Were you the lowest street-urchin in the Fishmonger's Square or the cheapest whore in Flea Bottom, I would feel the same for you." She meets his gaze and slowly he sees some of her self-assurance returning.

Quietly she whispers to him, "And what is that?"

He has avoided this moment, it being so far removed from the way he has lived his life and from his previous experiences. He has thought it to be a difficult, if not impossible thing to say and do; to admit his vulnerability and weakness – like giving an unsheathed dagger into someone's hands and pressing it against his own stomach. Yet at this moment nothing comes easier to him than those few words.

"I love you, Sansa. More than life itself. And don't you ever believe any different."

There, in front of his eyes, she changes. The sharp-eyed woman is gone, so is the unsure and anxious girl. Her lips curve into a smile and she whispers, "I love you too, Sandor. And don't _you_ ever believe differently."

She embraces him fully now, squeezing him long and hard, he returning her grip with a measured force so not to crush her. He closes his eyes and wonders how something he had thought to leave him hollow and exposed instead fills with him strength he didn't knew he had missed, until now.


	22. Explorations I

**_Summary: _**_He looks at Sansa, who has stilled completely and looks back at him with her mouth slightly open, red spots on her cheeks. She is tense, but there is expectation in her eyes and he takes it as a permission and resumes his examination._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

After understanding that she feels for him as strongly as he does for her, instead of life getting better and simpler, it becomes more complicated. What can they do? Sneak around like this for the rest of their lives?

* * *

"But I am really sick!" Sansa's dishevelled hair spreads against her pillow like a red curtain.

He looks down at her, still in her nightshift from the looks of it, although she is covered by a woollen blanket. He arrived to her chambers to escort her to the Great Hall as usual, but she had already sent her maid away and called him to enter from behind the closed door.

"What is wrong with you? Should I fetch the Maester?" For a moment he is worried, but then notices that she looks much too bright and healthy to be truly ailing.

"I am love-sick, and you know it," she purrs and smiles at him, shifting in the bed making room for him. "Come sit next to me!"

He sighs but sits down. He _wishes_ to spend time with her, although it makes him nervous for it to be like this. Aye, they kiss and touch and desire flows in the veins of them both, but never have they had a chance or nerve to go too far. To his own surprise he endures it with good grace – carnal urges that swept over him in the past are still there, but he wants to be careful with her. He is well aware that despite all her blustering and undoubtedly some raucous advice and stories she heard from the women on the road she is still very innocent. Besides, there is the issue of her maidenhood – why nobles would put such a store to something as insignificant as that is beyond him, but if she is to marry, she is expected to go into her marriage bed a maiden.

_Married!_ More proposals trickle in steadily but Sansa refuses them all. Sandor has often overheard Lady Catelyn accusing Robb for allowing her too much freedom; that he should tell her to make up her mind and pick one of the many lords who court her. Her brother and mother are willing to indulge her and allow her to choose from amongst the vetted proposals instead of picking her husband themselves – as if that is a big concession, he snorts.

His thoughts go back to the trail they often follow these days. _How long can she avoid marriage?_ As much as he has accepted that what was prophesied has been correct so far, he is still pragmatic at heart and knows that not everything that has been foretold will necessarily go that way. Sisters of kings simply don't marry their men-at-arms.

"Come lie next to me," she pleads and tugs at his tabard. "Take off your boots and make yourself comfortable. I told my maid I am not feeling well today and will not leave my room – we can stay here the whole day if we want!"

He surrenders and pulls off his boots, removes his swordbelt, tabard and gambeson, leaving only his tunic – and breeches, naturally. He crawls into bed with her, staying on top of the covers while she lies under them.

* * *

They resume their play, well-rehearsed by now, consisting of soft kisses growing incessant and hungry, only to be toned down again once their breath is hitched and they both are panting. And touches; her hand following the form of his back and chest, sliding on top of his ribcage and working its way in the contours of his muscled stomach. And his hands, caressing her shoulders and her exposed neck, fluttering above her breasts, brushing her nipples above her dress, making them pucker in firm peaks. A few times she has slipped her hand under his tunic, reminding him of _that_ time in the wagon. He has exposed her shoulder by pulling down the loose folds of her dress and pressed kisses on its bare skin.

Yet all of that they have done while fully clothed, sitting in Sansa's solar or even worse, huddling under one cloak in the shadow of the trees, furtively pressing against each other for the few short moments they have. Always wary of being interrupted, knowing that one or the other is expected somewhere and should they be seen missing their appointments too many times – both of them – people would start to put together one and one and reach two. That they are already gossiped about, they know, after the way how Sansa kept him close when he first started as her shield. That doesn't help them in their attempts to be inconspicuous.

Today is different: Sansa has informed everyone through her maid that she is unwell and incapable of going anywhere, and surprisingly Sandor has no other duties either, most of Winterfell troops having ridden to Torrhen's Square for an important training exercise. Only Robb with his household guard and Sandor as Lady Sansa's shield stayed behind.

Lying in a bed makes a difference too.

He turns to his side and prods his hand against his cheek, letting the other hand to hover above her prone body. He touches her neck, feeling her pulse, then slides it down across her collarbones, admiring how fragile and _perfect_ they are. The blanket is drawn up to cover her breasts but in a moment of daring he grips the wool and pulls it down, sliding it slowly to reveal her breasts under a thin nightshift, continuing further down until it rests folded on top of her hips.

He stops and looks at her for a moment; how vulnerable she looks in her white outfit. It is of the finest cloth, almost sheer, and he sees the shape of her breasts clearly, as well as the dark colouring around her nipples. He looks at Sansa, who has stilled completely and looks back at him with her mouth slightly open, red spots on her cheeks. She is tense, but there is expectation in her eyes and he takes it as a permission and resumes his examination.

He traces his fingers around those soft mounds, then above them, touching their peaks slightly every time he passes them. They shift up and down following her breathing, and he notices the tempo increasing as he continues. Not being happy with only slight touches he presses his hand firmly on one breast and squeezes it, not too hard, then the other. _They are so soft. _He moulds them in his hand and follows with fascination how they change shape as he flattens them against his palm. An irresistible craving overtakes him and he presses his mouth on top of the fabric, nibbling at it and moving against it until he feels something hard against the corner of his burned lip. He stops for a second to ascertain that Sansa is not trying to push him away and after sensing no resistance takes her nipple into his mouth and sucks. What a thrill it is, to touch her so intimately! He sucks and twirls his tongue around the hard peak, then moves to another breast, his hand never losing its touch on her. To finally be so close, to be allowed to do this for her…eventually he sighs and presses his head into the valley between her breasts, shifting his hands first to her shoulders, then sliding them down her arms and then again to her breasts. He is hard as hells but he tries to ignore it.

He feels Sansa's hands against the back of his head, moving slowly in circles fisting his long hair.

"Mmmmm, that was wonderful," she breaths so low he can hardly hear her. He smiles to himself. If they only could do this for real, no fabric in between… He lifts himself and pulls up to her level.

"_You_ are wonderful. Like fresh peaches they are, soft and ripe and so sweet to taste."

She blushes and averts her eyes for a moment, then looks at him again. "Would you…could you…remove your tunic? So I could look and touch you?"


	23. Explorations II

**Author's Notes: **It seems that even without a specific prophecy, the events unfolding next are blatantly obvious and unavoidable…what can I say? Long lost daughter ill, staying at her chambers, what is a mother to do?

**_Summary: _**_He feels hot and he has to will himself to stay still, letting her continue her explorations. Had someone told him that such a simple deed could get him so undone, he would have laughed at their face._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

He sees no real harm in acceding to Sansa's wish. She has seen him bare-chested many times before, after all. Besides, he longs to feel her hands on his skin. So he makes a quick work of it, throwing the garment on the floor.

Now it is his turn to lie on his back while Sansa hovers above him. As she does so her shift falls down against his chest and glancing at her neckline he realises he can see right inside it, catching a clear sight of the breasts he only moments ago held in his mouth and hands. _Seven_ _Hells!_ They are just as pleasing to the eye as he knew they would be; soft and round and nipples the colour of summer's last pink roses. He exhales slowly. Things are getting…very interesting.

Then he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of her hands that glide along his upper body. Her fingers are nimble and trace the thick cords of muscles in his arms, substantial even when at rest. Then she moves and presses her palms against his chest, her fingers now gripping purchase in the thick hair growing on it. Her hands move in soothing motions all over his chest and up his throat, stopping to examine the line where the hair of his chest transitions to the beard on his neck. It feels soft and gentle and exhilarating, but at the same time his skin hungers for more.

Suddenly she bends down and the next thing he knows is the jolt he feels when she presses her hot mouth on _his_ nipple. _Gods!_ Nobody has ever done that to him, and he didn't even know he could react like that to it.

She tastes one nipple first, surrounding it with her lips and just the tip of her tongue teasing it, then moves to the next. Her hot breath stirs the hair in his chest as she travels, nibbling and licking as she goes. He feels hot and he has to will himself to stay still, letting her continue her explorations. Had someone told him that such a simple deed could get him so undone, he would have laughed at their face.

Eventually she sighs and rests her head on his heaving chest while one of her hands starts to travel lower down his body. "Did you like it?" she whispers.

"Mmmmm, I did, very much. Was it something that the women on the road told you?"

"No…I just thought that since I liked when you did it to me, you may like it as well." She shifts slightly and turns her head to follow the trail of her slowly moving hand. "Things they told me involved mostly…other body parts."

He ponders what kind of advice she has been given. He knows there to be many true and tested techniques practiced by experienced whores to make their services more enjoyable to their customers –but mostly in higher class brothels. The services in the usual kind houses were much more straightforward for those men whose idea of fucking was a few thrusts and a grunt. He has visited both kind of places but his tastes had never been particularly esoteric so he might have missed the higher art of the act. The combination of Sansa's true innocence and the undoubtedly vulgar knowledge she has acquired make him wonder what it would be to bed her for true. _Shit!_ _Not a good time to start thinking about it._

Across the plain of his stomach her hand goes, tipping into his navel, then sliding up and down his side. She stops every now and then to scrutinise an outline of a scar, sliding the tip of her finger along it. He feels her hair trailing behind her head as she moves, its silken touch on his skin offering yet another challenge to his already heightened senses. Sometimes it tickles and he has to suppress an urge to chuckle, being sure that should he do that, Sansa would take it as a sign that she is doing something wrong and withdraw. And he wouldn't want that.

She hasn't touched him below the waist before, but after fulfilling her curiosity on his upper body her hand crosses the threshold of the waistline of his breeches, yet staying on top of the fabric. He is acutely aware that his fully erect cock is lying heavy against his abdomen, he having adjusted himself when he removed his tunic to ease his discomfort. They have both accepted by now that he can't control it; it is as if it has a mind of its own, getting hard at most inopportune moments. More than once he has emerged from one of their trysts with an awkward gait, trying to cover himself until the situation has passed. Sansa doesn't flinch from the feel of it anymore, and sometimes he could swear that she even presses and grinds herself provocatively against his hardness.

Sure enough, as her hand slides across his groin it touches his manhood and he can't prevent slight recoil at the feel of it. An involuntary gasp escapes from his lips. _This is getting too far!_ No matter how careful he wants to be, how mindful of her innocence and maidenhood, if she touches him like this…

Sansa also startles at the touch and removes her hand as if from hot coals. Yet she doesn't stay away long, soon making another halting detour to his throbbing member, touching it softly.

"Sansa…" he growls warningly, opening his eyes. She looks at him with a feverish look on her face.

"I have never seen it," she hums. "I have felt it against me many times, I have heard about it and what I should do with it, but I have never actually _seen_ it! When we were in the wagon it was always too dark and I couldn't steal a look, even later, when I wanted…" She is crouched low on her knees and stares at him pleadingly.

"May I? Just a peak?"

"You don't know what you are asking; this has already gone too far. Unless you plan to lose that precious maidenhead of yours here and now, you better move aside," he grumbles, reluctantly, but knowing that to see her unlacing his breeches and setting her eyes on his cock…_hells!_

Yet she has already moved ahead without waiting for his approval and is tugging at his laces when they hear a sound from her solar. They freeze, but before they have time to move a muscle, the door to the bedroom opens and Lady Catelyn breezes in, carrying a tray on her hands.

"Sansa, I heard you were not feeling well so I thought…" She stops on her tracks and stares at them, both frozen in mid-movement: Sansa still crouching on top of semi-naked Sandor, the laces of his breeches in her hands.


	24. Family Meeting

**Author's Notes: **Just a minor note about the sudden appearance of Queen Jeyne in this chapter… I forgot to include her in the scene where Sandor first met King Robb and Sansa's other family in Winterfell Great Hall (chapter 12). Not a biggie, and I have edited her in later, but just in case if anyone wonders _Where on earth did she come from?..._

**_Summary: _**_Robb and Jeyne look uncertain and Sandor gets a feeling that neither of them is quite as quick to draw the same conclusions as Sansa's mother. It amuses him at no end that she should not even consider what other meaning Sansa's statement may carry._

* * *

**Sandor**

He wishes he was anywhere but here. Lady Catelyn sits on a high bench and stares at him frostily and Robb strides back and forth in the long room waving his hands agitatedly. Queen Jeyne studies her husband from a lower chair with a worried look on her face. They are in the private solar of the family, Sansa standing calmly next to Sandor and following her brother with her eyes.

* * *

The aftermath of Lady Catelyn's intrusion was swift and decisive; she dropped the tray with all its contents and as if awakened by the clattering sounds Sansa drew herself up from the bed to face her mother's fury. Sandor had enough sense not to interfere, but only got up himself and gathered his tunic from the floor, pulled it on and moved to stand a respectably distance away from Sansa to follow the events unfolding.

"Sansa! Clegane! What…" Lady Catelyn's gaze moved from her to him, then back to her. She had enough sense not to finish her question as wasn't it bloody obvious?

"Mother. I am sorry you had to see this," Sansa started in a low voice.

"To see this! To have it happening at all…" Again her mother was loss at words. As if finding at least something that made sense she turned to him.

"Clegane, I thought you said there is nothing inappropriate between the two of you! Were you lying straight to my face?"

"I said I haven't bedded her, and I haven't," he murmured. There was more he wanted to say to her but he held his tongue, mindful of how much Sansa loved her mother despite their indifferences.

"And what was this, then?!" Her cheeks were blotched with red and there was real fury in her eyes. In a way she reminded him of how Sansa looked when she was really, really angry – although luckily he hadn't seen that often.

"Mother, I am still a maid, if that is what you are worried about. Sandor and I were only…" Sansa was interrupted by her mother, who seemed to be in no mood to hear arguments.

"You were only what? Lying in bed with a man who is not your husband, who is your sworn shield and a retainer, almost naked! Gods only know what would have happened had I not come in to save you!"

"I don't need saving, mother," Sansa spoke out, her ire clearly rising as well.

"Yes you do, you are only a young girl and don't know what you want. This man, "she threw a disdained look at Sandor, "knows it and takes advantage of you. But this stops here and now. Put your clothes on, I can see that you are not sick after all." She turned towards Sandor once more and pulled herself to her full height.

"Clegane, I am sure you understand that you can't stay here after _this._ I am mindful of the good deeds you have done to our house so I will not send you away with dogs after you, but you will pack your bags and leave this place by this time tomorrow. Take your reward, your armour and anything that is yours, and go with our good graces. But go you must."

He only looked at her and thought to himself that it was not going to be that simple. Mayhap earlier he would have submitted himself to her will, mayhap even after he had first kissed Sansa, when all was still a blur of bewilderment and uncertainty. Yet after what he knew now – how Sansa felt about him – he knew he couldn't do that. At least not without her.

From a sideway look at Sansa he gathered she was thinking the same. Her face bore none of the docile obedience expected from a daughter, but her lips were pursed together into a thin line and her jaw was set stubbornly. _Not so easy, this one._

* * *

And here they are, in an impromptu meeting demanded by Sansa. She had wanted to talk to her mother and brother both, and Lady Catelyn had agreed to it yet demanding that Sandor shouldn't be present. Sansa had replied quietly that there would be no meeting in that case, and reluctantly her mother had capitulated. So Sandor had joined them – as he preferred. He knew this to be a difficult meeting and didn't want to hide behind her skirts.

"I believe it is very obvious what this is," Lady Catelyn laments to Robb. "Sansa spent long enough time in his company so that he gained undue influence over her, and is now using it to his own wicked purposes." She glances at Sandor as if he was something dirty a cat dragged in. Her earlier fury has somewhat subdued, but she is still fuming.

"Clegane, I can't tell how disappointed I am to hear about this. I trusted you, thought you an honourable man, after all you have done. I hate to lose you but you must see that I can't let you spoil my sister." Robb appears almost apologetic as he talks to him.

"You know your liaison is impossible, don't you? You both? Sansa's duty is to marry according to her family's wishes, as any highborn lady's. Any…frivolity is intolerable and can lead only to pain and misery. Surely you know that, my sweetling?" Lady Catelyn turns to her daughter, looking at her pleadingly.

Sandor understands where she is coming from, as reluctant as he is to admit it. Lady Catelyn lives by the old code, where things follow the rules of propriety, chivalry and honour. That world has been hers all her life and she simply can't see beyond it. He also knows that she genuinely wants what is best for Sansa, and undoubtedly thinks that for Sansa to engage in an unholy affair with a man in her service can only end up in tears and misery. As it might, would this be an ordinary affair initiated by a curious maiden testing her charms in seduction, or an adventurous young woman looking for a stud in her bed while waiting for a boring old husband to come into it.

"Mother, Robb, I have given much through to the matter and I have decided it is time I marry," Sansa says softly. She too has settled down from her earlier agitation and there is something like pity on her face when she looks at them.

Both of them turn around, surprised from this apparently sudden change of topic. Lady Catelyn smiles cautiously. "Is it so? Was this only some kind of…exploration? My dear child, you should have come to me if you were curious about those matters! I know you trust him and he will undoubtedly do whatever you ask of him, but surely this went too far!"

Robb and Jeyne look uncertain and Sandor gets a feeling that neither of them is quite as quick to draw the same conclusions as Sansa's mother. It amuses him at no end that she should not even consider what other meaning Sansa's statement may carry.

Sansa smiles, obviously similarly amused. "You could say that…an exploration. I am glad you see that."

"So which one of the many proposals have you decided to accept? I don't mind any of those we have presented to you, as I have often said. It is your life after all." Lady Catelyn moves closer to her daughter and draws her hand in her own, hanging on to her next words.

"Oh mother, can't you really see? None of them. There is only one man I will marry and he stands here with me." She looks at Sandor with such an expression of love on her face that he feels it hitting him harder than a steel gauntlet. _In a good way._


	25. Elopement

**_Summary: _**_She looks at him and breathes her assurance into his mouth while looking deep into his eyes - and he finds no more arguments against her plan._

* * *

**Sandor**

The argument goes on and on, Lady Catelyn refusing to entertain the notion of marrying her eldest daughter to a landless non-lord, not even a knight. Robb tries to reason with Sansa, explaining how his bannermen wouldn't accept it, how his position is still precarious and he needs all the alliances he can get to keep his kingdom together, and how only Sansa can help him to achieve it. Queen Jeyne is mostly silent, but the glimpses she throws at his and Sansa's direction are not judgmental. On the contrary, Sandor thinks he sees sympathy in them, and remembers that she married her husband for love. _What is good for the king is obviously not good enough for the king's sister_, he snorts, annoyed that Robb dares to even talk about duty and honour. He likes the boy, thinks him a good king, but bloody hells, he too is influenced by that notorious and stupid _code._

Sansa bears all the arguments stolidly, refuting only the most audacious comments. As a matter of fact, she doesn't talk much. He doesn't talk much either, only once opening his mouth.

"My intentions towards your sister are honourable. I want to marry her and take care of her for the rest of my life. I didn't plan it this way, but sometimes events take a turn of their own." He glances at Queen Jeyne and Robb follows his gaze and has the decency to go red of embarrassment.

"I don't doubt your sincerity, Clegane. It is only that you ask too much. Would it be a daughter of one of my knights, or even one of the lords, I would support you and do my best to make the match happen. But this is too much. Are you _sure_ there is no-one else you could consider, if you want to wed?"

The look Sansa throws at her brother is incensed and Sandor chuckles quietly in his mind. _As if that would be possible!_

* * *

The meeting ends in impasse, neither party understanding or accepting the arguments of another. As they turn to leave, Sansa goes to her brother, takes his hand and leads him to her mother whose hand she also grasps. She looks at them solemnly and speaks very slowly in a low voice.

"Mother, brother, I love you both dearly and I never want to hurt you intentionally. But hear me, and hear me well. I _will_ marry Sandor Clegane, with or without your permission. I wish that we wouldn't have to leave Winterfell and search our luck on the road, but if it comes to it, that we shall. We have done it once, and I know we can do it again."

They stare at her unbelievingly. Sansa kisses Robb's cheek, then Lady Catelyn's, squeezes their hands one more time and turns away, coming to his side.

"Sandor, can you escort me to my chambers, please." He grunts his assent, takes her hand and leads her away. He heard what she said and can't wait to enquire what in seven hells she meant with it. The two of them eloping – he is not sure he could take her away from her ancestral home she so long and hard tried to reach.

"What was that, little bird?" he mutters when they are out of earshot. She looks at him sharply.

"It is what it is. I mean it. I rather leave with you than stay here without you, you should know that."

"Aye, me too – but are you sure? Life on the road is not easy, as you know. Where would we go, across the Narrow Sea, to Braavos? Could you be happy as the wife of a lowly guard or a hired shield, what I would have to become so we could stay in one place?"

Sansa squeezes his arm assuredly. "We would find something. I have some coin and jewellery, and I can sew. We could set up a small house and live a simple life."

He gets caught up envisioning it; he coming home at the end of the day, Sansa receiving him with an embrace… It is almost as he imagined in the merchant's camp when he first admitted to himself that he wanted her. When he had hoped she would be just a commoner so he could have her.

* * *

He doesn't leave the keep by the deadline Lady Catelyn set – and he is not turned out or dogs sent to chase after him. Their life returns to normal – or _near_ normal, as Robb makes sure he can't spend any time in Sansa's company, assigning him tasks with the troops. The only occasions they meet are a few hasty encounters in quiet corridors or gloomy recesses in the battlements.

It is quite clear that Sansa's proposition of unconventional marriage will not get her family's approval. He asks her again if she is sure – if he is _worth_ it? She looks at him and breathes her assurance into his mouth while looking deep into his eyes - and he finds no more arguments against her plan.

So they elope.

* * *

This time they are better prepared and make good distance towards White Harbor, where they plan to find a ship. Besides their own mounts they have a pack horse, loaded with a proper tent, warm beddings, enough food to last weeks and many other items needed on the journey.

Their first night brings into his mind the nights from the past – except this time he doesn't have to lie by her side quietly, staring into emptiness and fighting against his crude urges. No, he can take her into his arms and feel her returning his embrace, see her smile light the small tent and bask in its warmth.

Curiously, now that they are truly alone and don't have to fear anyone interrupting them, they return to their earlier, almost chaste encounters. They _will_ marry, that much is certain, and although Sansa doesn't say it, he senses that she may not be completely impervious to the traditions she grew up with; wearing a maiden's cloak on her wedding day and going to her husband untouched. Even if the man who would touch her would be her future lord husband. He doesn't grudge it nor want to take it away from her.

In White Harbor they will find a septa _and_ a godswood and carry out the rites in front of the old gods and the new. He can wait. He can be patient.


	26. Mummer's Play

**_Summary: _**_He notices then that there are no troops surrounding them, not even the king's household guards, who usually escort him wherever he goes. It appears that he has arrived all by himself, his sweaty and foaming horse a small distance away, drooping its head._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor wakes up, Sansa still curled against him in his arms, sleeping peacefully, her hand stretched across his chest and her legs entwined with his. He is not sure what alerted him, but he strains his ears nonetheless. The roads have become safer now that Robb's hold on the Kingdom of the North has stabilised and his troops patrol the main roads regularly, but he doesn't rely on external protection only. Before they retired for the night, he set a series of cleverly disguised traps in the vicinity of the tent, which will alert them with their sounds about anyone daring to approach.

Then he hears it; a faint tingle of one of the outer snares; someone is coming. He rouses Sansa gently and presses his finger on his lips to make her stay quiet.

"Sansa! Are you there? Clegane!"

They freeze; it is Robb's voice. His mind scrambles; how has the king been able to reach them so quickly? The have ridden fast and he estimated them to be already in White Harbor before any troops sent from Winterfell would have had a chance to reach them.

Sansa looks calm and rises into a seated position. "It is Robb. Let me deal with him." While he looks on she gets up, crouching in the low tent.

"Robb, I am here! Give me a moment, I am coming out!" she shouts, leans towards him and kisses him on the lips. Then she takes his head between her hands and guides it against her throat, to the pulse point he often kisses when they enjoy each other.

"Kiss me there, now." He is confused but does as he is asked. If they are to be caught and separated, is this what she wants to take with her, memory of his lips on her? He refuses to believe that it could come to that, but acquiesces nonetheless and kisses her throat and neck, tasting faint traces of salt. She presses his face firmer against her.

"Harder! I want you leave your mark on me!" Again he does as she asks and renews his efforts. Normally he doesn't want to leave marks on her unblemished skin, recalling still too well the angry bruises Joffrey's Kingsguard left on her. Sometimes, however, their passion runs too high - but knowing them to be signs of their love makes them less troubling.

Too soon she withdraws, pulls the warm dress she slept in over her head, leaving only her thin shift, and removes the woollen socks from her feet. She musses her hair and pulls the shift down from her other shoulder, revealing its perfect roundness in an enticing pose. The marks of his heated kiss are just starting to show up, red and still slick with his saliva. All this he follows with increasing puzzlement until he realises what she is doing. He recognises it as a risky strategy – but one that could pay out, and he can't help admiring her pluck.

"Robb, you have come a long way!" She clambers out of the tent and draws up to her full height. He follows, and looking at her in the light of the day sees what she clearly wanted Robb to see: a wanton woman, dishevelled and languid after a night of passionate lovemaking. Despite the direness of the situation he feels himself getting aroused. _Hells, not now!_

Robb stares at her mouth agape, then reddens and takes his own cloak and hands it to her, muttering something about cold morning air.

He notices then that there are no troops surrounding them, not even the king's household guards, who usually escort him wherever he goes. It appears that he has arrived all by himself, his sweaty and foaming horse a small distance away, drooping its head.

"Sansa…" Robb licks his dry lips and seems unsure what to say. Sansa looks at him with narrowed eyes and waits.

"Sansa," he tries again, "come home. I can't allow – I mean, I can't bear to think of you here, on your way to Braavos. You belong to the North, you belong to Winterfell."

Sansa says nothing and he wonders if she is considering her brother's plea. The he realises that Robb had mentioned Braavos. _How in bloody hells does he know about it?_ Anyone in their right mind would expect them to aim for White Harbor, that being the biggest harbor town and access to anywhere in the known world, but how had he known into which particular city they were planning to go?

"You know my terms," she says quietly, clutching her brother's cloak around her shoulders. She hasn't fully closed it so her thin shift is still visible, revealing the outlines of her body. She looks like a maiden of the forest, except _maidenly _doesn't exactly describe her current appearance.

Robb shifts on his feet. "I know. And I agree to them."

Sansa draws a quick breath. "And mother?"

"She also. And Jeyne, and Arya, and I will take care of my bannermen and the Northern lords and anyone else who might have anything to say about the matter. Just come home." He turns to Sandor and addresses him.

"Clegane, I accept your proposal for the hand of my sister. You will be wed as soon as you wish. Which may be soon." He glances at Sansa's dishevelled form and it is clear that he thinks there may already be a babe in her belly.

"And what then?" he grunts, startled at the turn of events but satisfied that his little bird doesn't have to fly too far away from her nest after all.

"And then whatever we decide. I haven't made out all the details yet. Gods forbid man, I am offering you the hand of the noblest and most beautiful lady of the realm, be it one or six or seven kingdoms, the most sought after marriage alliance since Rhaegar Targaryen was in the market for a bride, and you ask me _what then?!_"

Despite his harsh words a smile starts to spread on Robb's boyish face and after a while Sandor feels his own mouth twitching. Soon their smiles turn into chortles and before long all three of them are laughing out loud, relieved beyond measure. The stress of the last few days has taken its toll on them and now that it is finally released, they simply can't stop laughing. Robb's weary horse looks up as if questioning _Is this what we rode like devils for?_, and seeing that only increases Sandor's mirth.

* * *

Their return trip takes considerably longer than their onward journey did, but Sandor doesn't mind. Sansa is happy, sparkling cheerfulness and joy, and the looks she directs at him are pleased and proud and even though he is unsure of what he should think of it, slightly mischievous.

On a wide stretch of the road he rides closer to her and mutters under his breath, "Did you plan this all along, little bird? Is that why you suggested elopement in the first place?"

Sansa's smile widens but then she turns serious. "I…hoped for this outcome. Yet I couldn't be sure." She looks at him under her lashes. "I told Jeyne where we were going, but I swore her to secrecy until we had had a good head start. She is on our side; she knows what it is to marry for love and not for political gain. I suspect she also felt bad that Robb had to try to find political benefits through me, having failed in it himself."

"Aye, she has it right there. Always thought Robb had some nerve to talk about your marriage as a means to alliances," he curses. "That was still a risky move. What if they had sent soldiers after us, without intent to yield to your terms?"

"Then they would have had to drag me back to Winterfell in chains. Jeyne knew that. And I couldn't see Robb wanting to do that to me, nor my mother, I know them well enough."

He still can't let it be. The plan had been audacious, but also dangerous.

"What if they hadn't followed you at all? Decided to let you loose?"

Sansa turns to look at him and despite her earlier bashfulness she is now solemn and regal as the princess of the North she is.

"Then I wold have lived happily with you in Braavos, or in any other place we would have decided to settle. I told you once and I tell you again; I rather live with you across the Narrow Sea than stay in the North without you. So despite of what you think, there was no real risk in my plan."

"What about that mummer's play at the tent? You care so little about your reputation?" Had Robb arrived with a group of soldiers, the story of his sister's ruin would have travelled through the keep faster than a mouse's tail disappears through a crack in the wall.

Sansa smirks. "I had to give him a reason to hurry, didn't I? No king wants his sister to give birth to a bastard and I wanted to make sure that our marriage will not be delayed in a hope that I would change my mind."

_Others take me! _Sandor eyes her with admiration but also with slight trepidation. If he ever had entertained notions about being stronger in this relationship, he realises that this innocent girl, turned to a brilliant strategist, does in the end defeat him easily. Yet instead of it making him feel less of a man, it compels him to straighten up in his saddle, proud.

_She chose me. Me._


	27. The Wedding

**_Summary: _**_In the end they find themselves in one of the guest chambers of the keep, specifically prepared for the newlyweds for the night. At last they are alone; at last they can be sure that they will not be interrupted; at last they know that what they are about to do is not only allowed, but expected._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Their reception back in Winterfell is subdued. Sandor soon realises that the common folk in the keep weren't even aware of their elopement. Robb confirms his suspicions by informing them that he had let it out that Sansa had gone to White Harbor in some unspecified business, escorted only by her sworn shield. The story was weak – who would have allowed the king's sister to travel with only one retainer; what about her safety, what about her reputation? Yet it was better than the truth, Robb admits, pulling a face as they enter his solar where the rest of the family is waiting.

Lady Catelyn is still not exactly warm towards Sandor, but has seemingly resigned to the inevitable and welcomes Sansa back whole-heartedly, clutching her in her embrace and not letting her go for a long time. Sandor follows the reunion from the sidelines, but feeling someone's eyes on him, he turns to see Queen Jeyne smiling shyly at him. He nods his head at her slowly, being conscious of the role she has played in the events.

* * *

Robb's announcement of their betrothal two days later in the Great Hall is met with universal astonishment. For a moment the hall is so silent that they could hear a pin drop, but soon the quiet turns into frenzied murmur as people voice their amazement to each other. Many eyes turn towards Sandor, most simply dumbfounded and shocked, some malicious and hateful.

He doesn't care. He sits on the dais with the family, chafing on his seat. This is not why he wanted her; to play a buggering lord or to sit higher than the rest of the folk. Yet he endures that, for her sake.

After that things move on swiftly. Clearly the fear of Sansa's possible pregnancy spurs Lade Catelyn, who sets seamstresses to work on Sansa's maiden's cloak and Sandor's cloak of Clegane colours; cooks to prepare sausages and salted meat for the feast; household servants to clean the Great Hall and decorate it for the wedding feast. Ravens are sent to all keeps in the North with wedding invitations. Sansa may marry beneath her station, but it is still going to be a royal wedding and certain customs have to be followed.

Only a few days before the wedding Sansa announces against her mother's wishes that she wants to submit herself to an inspection by a wise-woman from Wintertown, and old hag who attends birthings of the smallfolk and is respected by all in matters related to secret women's businesses. When the woman announces Sansa to be as pure as on the day she was born, Sandor sees something in her family's attitudes shifting. Lady Catelyn looks at him clearly puzzled, and in Robb's eyes he sees a hint of new respect.

He knows Sansa didn't do it for her own sake, but for his – wanting to let her family know that Sandor hadn't taken advantage of her but had kept himself under control. Although such matters are supposed to be kept within the family, he soon learns that the whole keep knows, leaving people even more baffled. If not for hastily restoring the honour of a fallen lady, why would King Robb give his sister away to such an unimportant man, to the ex-dog of his enemies?

Nobody is brave enough to question it in front of his face and he goes by his business ignoring puzzled looks of his fellow soldiers and other attendants. Sansa spends a lot of time preparing for her wedding with her mother, sister and goodsister, and day by day he sees the family's initial hostility slowly changing; first to reluctant acceptance, then to something even more welcoming. He sits with the Starks at every meal and is frequently invited to spend the evenings by the roaring fire in Lady Catelyn's solar, where the inner circle of the King in the North discusses about matters of great importance.

He accepts all this in good grace, just like he accepted his role in Casterly Rock or in King's Landing. If he sometimes bristles at the courtly manners and customs, just seeing Sansa on these occasions is enough to remind him why he is doing it.

* * *

The big day goes by in a blur. He knows himself to be only a secondary character in a bigger picture and submits to everything that is thrown his way grudgingly, whether it is dressing up in bloody fineries, listening to septon blathering on and on about the gods and whatnot, or sitting at the feasting table and enduring endless toasts and speeches, peppered with sideway glances in his direction by the wedding guests. The only respite he gets is the ceremony in the Godswood, where it is only he and Sansa in front of the old weirwood tree, King Robb, Queen Jeyne, Lady Catelyn and Lady Arya witnessing their union in front of the old gods. He feels their presence calming and thinks that if he ever has to make his peace with the gods, he might as well do that with those of the North.

The bedding ceremony is the last straw that finally breaks him. Once the boldest of the women drag him out of his seat and start pulling the laces of his tunic and his breeches, he extends himself to his full height and roars above them to let him be; that he can bloody undress himself and doesn't need any help from buggering wenches who would faint at the sight of a real man's tackle anyway. To his amazement, instead of scurrying away in fright they only laugh at him and renew their efforts. Throwing a surprised look at Sansa's direction, who is similarly being escorted away from the hall by a rowdy procession, he sees her biting her lip in an attempt to hide her glee.

* * *

In the end they find themselves in one of the guest chambers of the keep, specifically prepared for the newlyweds for the night. At last they are alone; at last they can be sure that they will not be interrupted; at last they know that what they are about to do is not only allowed, but expected.

Many caresses, previously withdrawn at the time when they reached unspoken limits, are offered and received, crossing those boundaries and crumbling them into dust. Many kisses, melting the two of them into one, are extended and savoured with the knowledge that instead of dangerously leading them into heady precipice of forbidden delights, this time they will pave way for long-awaited pleasures. Many sounds, words whispered in a low voice into each other's ears, sighs and moans, fill the chamber, followed by creaking of the old wooden bed and their heavy breathing.

Sandor can feel the resistance of her maiden's veil giving in when he enters her, slowly and gently. He hates the pain he makes her feel, sensing it from the way she tenses under him and from her hitched breathing. Repeatedly he apologises to her, murmuring the words as if a chant, over and over again, while trying to control himself so hard that his body is soon covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

He finishes much too quickly and asks her forgiveness once again knowing how badly he let her down. She hushes his words and pulls him closer, stroking his strong body, momentarily defeated and limp in her arms. _The night is still young, _she tells him, and her trust and understanding overwhelms him again, but in a different way than her supply body did earlier.

She was right; as the night progresses they love each other the second time and it is better, much better. As is the third time in the morning when the rays of sun stream into their room and wake them up, sated but still hungry for each other.

* * *

Even after the wedding the question of how it came to be is still raised by many. Was it a reward of some sort from Robb to Sandor for some dubious deed, not publicly known? If Sandor hadn't forced her carnally, had he exerted some other questionable influence over a young, innocent maiden, twisting her will into his own?

Sandor's position in the new scheme of things still being undecided, he attends to his duties as before. Staying by Sansa's side is easy enough, although the lines between being her sworn shield and her lord husband are getting increasingly blurred. He attends the meetings of his fellow commanders and trains and rides with them and the other soldiers.

After one such time, an excursion that saw him with half the men of Winterfell riding towards the Long Lake to subdue some local restlessness, he returns to Winterfell at the head of the column. They have been away for two nights, sleeping outdoors in crude encampments, and he is looking forward to spending his night in the comfort of her rooms and with _her_. _With my lady wife_, he muses to himself, still unaccustomed to the ring of it.

Hardly has he dismounted in the middle of the busy yard and handed Stranger's reins to one of the stable boys who has gained his trust with his horse, when he hears his name being called.

"Sandor!" He turns and sees Sansa approaching across the yard, first walking swiftly, then breaking into a run and hurrying directly towards where he is standing. She is dressed in a light dress, not wearing a cloak or proper boots, and her dainty slippers are soon caked with mud. She doesn't care, and the expression on her face makes him draw a deep breath, so full of joy and love it is. Disregarding all the rules about appropriate behaviour of a noble lady she runs to him and jumps into his arms, encircling his neck with her soft hands and kissing him deeply, passionately. As unprepared as he is for this, he embraces her in turn and lifts her up in the air, swirling her so that her feet don't meet the ground as he presses her tighter against his body, cocking his head to meet her lips and opening his mouth to let him better taste her sweet kisses.

"I missed you so, oh please don't go away again like this, I can't bear the nights on my own!" she whispers in a frantic tone, holding his head between her hands and kissing his lips, his jaw, his cheeks, wrapping her long legs around his middle while he supports her weight fully in his grip. Forgetting where they are he returns her kisses and soothes her with same sounds he uses to pacify restless horses. They seem to work on her too as after a while she calms down and rests her head against his wide shoulder, breathing a satisfied sigh.

Changing her position in his arms, one arm holding her upper body and the other under her knees, he turns and starts to walk in swift strides towards the keep. Only then he notices how all the soldiers and servants in the yard have dropped whatever they were doing and stare at the two of them their mouths wide open, eyebrows raised high. As he walks between them they move out of the way but do not drop their gaze from the unexpected incident they just witnessed. He stares at them defiantly as if waiting for someone to challenge him, but no such challenge is issued. On the contrary, some of the younger ones smile, some nod their head knowingly and some shake theirs in bewilderment.

After that day he never again hears speculations or gossip about the reasons for the king's sister's unusual marriage.


	28. Far North

**Author's Notes: **Although it may seem that the story is only in its peak, in reality it is starting to gradually wind down (finally!). Remember, this was supposed to be just a modest dribble to pass the time while holidaying… Nonetheless, the most important points of the prophecy are starting to be fulfilled, so for the rest of the story its pace is going to be somewhat faster and more cursory. Just thought to 'warn' about that in advance…

**_Summary: _**_While he stares at the crackling tiles of the floor, he sneers internally about the emptiness of those lofty ceremonies. Their future home is still only a dishevelled holdfast, a crumbling tower in the middle of the lake in the middle of nowhere, only empty shells of abandoned hovels surrounding it._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

_What then? _Sandor had asked Robb that, and the answer is still forthcoming. He is told that he will be granted a lordship, as little as he cares about it. Yet, it is only prudent for the husband of a princess, he has to admit. Several keeps are suggested, all of them left without an heir in recent wars, and although he would accept any of them, Sansa resists.

One night as they prepare for the night, Sansa brushing her long hair in sure strokes and he admiring the way the candlelight glows in her fiery tresses, Sansa opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again in that familiar way of hers. He only has to look at her and raise an eyebrow and Sansa knows from experience what he means. Sighing she puts the brush away.

"Ever since you told me about the old woman and the prophecy, and how she asked both you and me to be kind to her people, I have been thinking about the wildlings. Maybe rather than south we should look into north?"

Sandor startles. He thought that one thing preventing Sansa to make the decision about where they would set their home is her reluctance to move away from Winterfell; to leave her family and the comforts of her childhood home. Yet all the estates they have considered have been close enough to allow her to visit her folks as often as she desires. And here she is, suggesting they look _further_ away? Besides, as far as he is aware, there are no castles in need of a lord up north.

"North? Are you sure? It is cold and unwelcoming there, all its castles weeks ride away. And where? Karhold and Last Hearth have Houses Karstark and Umber sternly in power, and they wouldn't yield their seats even to the King in the North's sister." _And especially not to his Westerner husband_, he doesn't even have to add.

"It may be cold outside, but inside a sturdy keep it can be as warm as here. Winterfell is not the only place where warm springs can be found in the earth, and harnessing them would make life liveable even in the middle of winter." Her voice grows in excitement as she speaks, and she climbs into the bed where he is already reclining, leaning on his elbow.

"Aye, might be so, but first one would have to find the springs and build the stronghold. Such work is not for castle-born ladies." He winds his fingers through her hair and pulls her to his side.

"I know _that_. _I _wouldn't be the one felling the timber and quarrying the rock, you silly man," she murmurs against his chest, her lips skimming his skin. "We would send craftsmen and builders first to do all that."

He is amused by her notion that they could establish a new house as easily as setting a camp. For what end? He asks her just that and soon wishes he hadn't, as instead of the evening turning to a pleasurable enjoyment of their still newly-discovered intimacy, she gives him a long, breathless speech about how the wildlings could end up being the balancing power they need in their relations with King Stannis's Six Kingdoms.

From what she tells he can see that she has given the subject a lot of thought. And the more he hears, the more it starts to make sense. Yes, wildlings incorporated into the Kingdom of the North and the vast resources of the far North being harnessed to benefit the combined nations, would shift the balance of power subtly to Robb's advantage. Everyone knows there to be untold riches deep in the earth; gold and silver and iron. Wildlings not caring about such industries those treasures only lay there, unused. The area on both sides of the Wall is also teeming with game, sought after everywhere for furs and pelts.

He knows that Robb is in the middle of negotiations with Stannis about agreeing to pay an annual tithe to his royal coffers in exchange of Stannis dropping his suit to unite the North back into the central fold once again. He also knows that the tithe will be hard to come by, and should it be left unpaid for too long, the North may still lose the independence it has once again acquired.

Eventually Sansa drops the topic and concentrates on much more gratifying ways to pass time in their marital bed, but after she has already fallen asleep, Sandor lays awake for a long time, contemplating the discussion they just had.

* * *

At first Robb scoffs at the suggestion, but is still willing to entertain the notion and tasks members of his council to find out more about the feasibility of such enterprise. Their reports trickle in, one by one, boosted by messages carried by ravens from the Night's Watch in response to Robb's queries. One day a small party arrives by horseback through the North Gate, headed by an unusually stout man, whose round face nonetheless reveals kindness and intelligence. Samwell Tarly is his name and he is sent by Sansa's half-brother Jon Snow, who recommends him in his letter as the best man to find out all there is to be found in the library of Winterfell about the far North; its people, customs, geography and everything else.

Samwell Tarly sets to work and soon hardly a day goes by without him bringing yet another interesting piece of information he has garnered from musty old tomes he spends his days with. It turns out the Starks of old had much more to do with the affairs of the North close to the Wall than anyone remembered, and soon Robb himself gets excited about the prospect of establishing a new house there.

* * *

While all this is happening and both Sansa and Sandor follow its progress with keen interest, they have another thing occupying their minds.

Sansa is with a child.

When he first hears about it, whispered words to his ear one morning when he wraps his arms around Sansa's back and splays his large hand on top of her soft belly, he is left speechless. _A babe. My seed growing in her womb._

He knows of course that to be only a natural consequence of their shared passions. And even though they don't really speak about it, the prophecy has stayed at the back of their minds with the four children promised in it.

Yet, it is so soon. The thought of becoming a father fills his mind with dread. _Can_ he be a good father? How can he not fail? What in hells would he know about children and how to be with them anyway?

One thing he decides, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists_. I will not be like my own sire. I will not let my children suffer or be indifferent to my wife's needs._

* * *

Less than half a year after their wedding they finally know where their new home is going to be. _Queenscrown._

King Robb grants the lands east of Queenscrown, in the area spanning both the Gift and the New Gift, to Lord and Lady Clegane, from henceforth to be known as Wardens of the Far-North, in an official ceremony in the Great Hall. Sandor has to swallow his distaste for courtly ceremonies once more and kneel by his lady wife's side as Robb hands them the parchment signifying the deed, written in Samwell Tarly's neat hand. They also receive the symbols of their new responsibilities, a rod made of weirwood branch and a bronze chain with small animal figures dangling from it.

While he stares at the crackling tiles of the floor, he sneers internally about the emptiness of those lofty ceremonies. Their future home is still only a dishevelled holdfast, a crumbling tower in the middle of the lake in the middle of nowhere, only empty shells of abandoned hovels surrounding it.

Yet it all is about to chance, and soon.


	29. New Frontiers

**_Summary: _**_He realises now how entwined his life had become with hers and how lonely he is without her by his side. The solitary dog, the solemn warrior who needed no-one and cared for nobody, has been utterly turned by the woman with a fire in her hair._

* * *

**Sandor**

The babe screams as the seven devils were sitting on his chest as he lies on his mother's arms and wildly waves his little arms. Sandor approaches him with trepidation, ready to move away in a flash if it looks like he will be in danger of breaking something. How can he even imagine putting his rough, calloused hands on something that is so small, so delicate and so vulnerable? Yet he does it at Sansa's encouragement, and is rewarded with the strangest feeling.

From the very first touch it is as if the babe seizes_ him_, and an extraordinary energy flows from him through Sandor's hardened fingertips straight into his heart, burning a trail in its wake. That burn will never leave him, he knows as surely as he knows that he loves the babe's mother more than anything in the whole fucking world.

Sansa smiles tiredly, exhausted by the labour that lasted all through the night and best part of the morning, leaving Sandor a seething, angry wreck despite assurances from Lady Catelyn and Queen Jeyne that it was not unheard of for a first-time mother. Jeyne, being halfway through her own first pregnancy, is suddenly an expert in all that comes to child-bearing, lady Catelyn indulging her with a knowing smile of someone who has gone through the ordeal five times herself.

"A boy. A perfect, beautiful little boy," Sansa whispers wearily, putting her own hand on top of Sandor's, still resting on top of the writhing little body. He stares at the sight; a tiny, wrinkly chest, covered by his hairy knuckles and Sansa's long, slender fingers entangled with his. He feels constriction in his throat and knows that nothing will ever be the same again.

"What do you want to name him?" Sansa asks and leans down on her bed, pulling the babe against her chest where he settles down.

"You name him, I have no family name to put forward," he grunts. He certainly wouldn't want to call him after _his _kin, that's for sure.

"Eddard would be a natural choice, but I know that Jeyne and Robb would wish to name their son so," Sansa whispers while toying with tiny tufts of hair on the newborn's forehead with her finger. "Also, Eddard is a Stark name and belongs to Winterfell. We are Cleganes and we belong to Queenscrown soon. I would like to name him as a son of the North. What would you say if we called him Norr?" The babe responds to the name by a soft whimpering noise.

"Norr… a good, strong name for a good, strong boy. Aye, he can be Norr," he rasps, liking the idea of giving the boy a new name instead of one many times used, carrying memories of men from the past.

"Little Norr, say hello to your father," Sansa coos to the babe and he opens his eyes and Sandor drowns into them as he once did into his little bird's big blue orbs.

* * *

After Sansa has recovered from childbed Sandor prepares to leave to their new estate. He resolutely refuses to take Sansa and Norr with him, stating the place not to be suitable for a new mother and a suckling babe. Reluctantly Sansa gives in and so he leaves with a group of builders and servants from Winterfell, volunteers from nearby villages, some black brothers from the Night's Watch on their way to the Wall, and a score of livestock to sustain them all.

This is the first time he is apart from Sansa since the day he took her out of King's Landing; the day when the green fire scorched his lungs and burned his eyes and made him mad enough to seize what was not his, the maiden from the North. He realises now how entwined his life had become with hers and how lonely he is without her by his side. The solitary dog, the solemn warrior who needed no-one and cared for nobody, has been utterly turned by the woman with a fire in her hair.

* * *

The place is as he expected; desolate, neglected, hardly liveable. Nothing into it but to get to work, he surmises. The next few months sees him and his crew toiling tirelessly, charting the nearby regions and to their great satisfaction finding a seam of hot springs right on the opposite side of the lake where the isolated turret resides. He and the men map the outlines of the future holdfast there, planning where to build the keep, the stables, the kitchens, the baths. Hardly any work is started outside the crude hut that is erected first to serve as lodgings for the crew and as the heart of the keep. Yet when he leaves the place after a few months stay he can imagine how it will look in years to come; a simple but handsome castle built to blend in with the landscape and the elements of nature.

He leaves a group of men behind, their original numbers being boosted by young men from all over the North; from Karhold, Last Hearth and Moletown, as well as by wildlings sent by Jon Snow, who has been recently elected as the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Everyone has heard about the ambitious plan to set up a new estate in the North and of the coin one can make there. Secretly Sandor suspects that many of the men and boys simply don't have anything better to do and are drawn to a place where they have a chance to meet others, share stories and find something young men are always want to find; an adventure.

* * *

Sansa is beside herself when he rides into the keep, weary and dirty, exhausted by the hard pace he kept up in order to sooner reach his woman and his son.

"I swear I will never let you leave without me again, no matter what the circumstances," she whispers into his ear when they finally are alone and have satisfied their longing for each other – twice.

He strokes her womanly shape with his big hands and enjoys the velvety feel of her skin. She is back to her lithe form and he finds himself missing her as she was, heavy with child; her breasts filled with milk and her belly a mystery of a new life it held inside. He used to tease her and call her his 'beautiful aurochs' and it used to drive her mad.

"_I_ swear I will never leave your side, woman, not as long as I have breath in me," he curses, knowing that a marriage where spouses happily live in different parts of the realm as duty calls them, is not for him. And not for his little bird.

Seeing his son, now so grown and strong and far removed from the nursing babe he left behind, he avows anew that he will not be the kind of father who sees his children only intermittently, sending them to wet nurses or relatives for upkeep, and as soon as possible, to be fostered in another house.

Norr is wary of him at first, preferring his mother's soft arms and skirts, but over time Sandor obtains his trust although he couldn't say how in hells he managed to do that. All he can think of is that as long as he treats the boy as he would a young, flighty horse; with patience, persistence, honesty and respect, he can't go too wrong, eh?

* * *

The few months back in Winterfell fly by too fast and soon it is time for them to leave again. This time it is for real, not for a preliminary excursion or an expedition with an aim of only getting something started. No, Sansa comes with him and with her comes _home._

The farewells at the yard are hard for all of them. Sansa and Jeyne embrace each other with tears in their eyes, Jeyne's young Ned clinging onto his mother's side in a mirror image of Norr holding on to Sansa's. Robb embraces Sandor briefly, his face stern but troubled, the exciting idea of the new house in the North apparently having turned to reality too soon, taking his beloved sister away into the wilderness. Lady Catelyn and Sansa cry in each other's arms, Norr having been handed to his nurse. After Sansa pulls away and turns to her brother, Lady Catelyn takes a few steps to face Sandor.

"You will keep my daughter and my grandson safe, won't you?" Her voice is regal as always but it can't hide its pleading tone.

Sandor grunts his assurances. Having followed her in close quarters for a while now, his initial dislike and exasperation of her old-fashioned ways and rigid code of honour have changed into a grudging respect. A wolfmother, that she is; ruthless when it is required, but willing to give her all to protect her cubs.

She looks at him long and hard before nodding her head in a gesture of acknowledgment. "I know you will. I should have never doubted that you wanted anything but what is best for her, Sandor." Suddenly she puts her hands on his shoulders and leans up towards him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, on the burned side.

"Seven bless you, my goodson," she breathes and as soon as she reached towards him, as soon is she gone.

Sandor stares at her back, surprised. _Sandor? _ This is the first time she has called him by his first name. And as much as he would like to think that he is impervious to what Sansa's family thinks of him, there is a strange, warm feeling in his chest as he walks to his horse.

* * *

Once again a long procession leaves through the North Gate, but instead of only men this convoy is joined also by women; old trusted servants, many of whom have mixed wildling blood in their veins and take this change to see the lands of their birth or that of their parents; young maids ready to start a new life in a new place, leaving the binds of servitude behind in preference of a small piece of land they can call their own; whores from Wintertown who know a frontier settlement with more men than women offering good business opportunities for astute minds and buxom bodies. Everyone who wants to join them is welcomed, after first passing the scrutiny of Lady Sansa and Lord Clegane.

Sansa is eager as a young colt as she rides next to him, carrying Norr in a woollen blanket secured against her side, her cheeks red from the frost and excitement. He follows her with his gaze, pleased and proud, but also with a shadow of worry on his mind. On their last night in the cocoon of their marital bed she confessed to him being with child again, shy but happy and keen to share the good news with him. He was pleased, of course, the thought of seeing her blooming again as she had the last time making him look forward to the months ahead. Yet moving so far away, so removed from the support provided by her mother, the wise-woman from Wintertown and the maester, is a risk he is reluctant to take. Yet she is persistent; she will _not_ let him leave without her, and in the end he has no choice but to proceed as planned.

As he urges his mount forward he has but one thing in his mind.

_This better work. The North better not fuck with us._


	30. Visitors

**_Summary: _**_The man nods back and walks out of the door, only to return a few short moments later with two – no, three - others. One of the new arrivals is just a young boy, another a huge man carrying a girl in his arms._

* * *

**Sandor**

Sandor eyes the man sitting on the other side of the table warily and with more than a hint of suspicion. The man is tall and broad, his skin tanned and wrinkled as much as can be seen from under his bushy beard, but his eyes are bright and clear and leave nothing unnoticed.

King-Beyond-The-Wall, they call him, although wildlings are known not to acknowledge kings or queens. The one before him, Mance Rayder, having succumbed on a trip far away to the Frozen Shore, one of his lieutenants had been elected to lead the free people in his stead.

The new king, Ormar Bylle, is known to hate Southerners, among whom he includes everyone south of the Wall. His settlement is near Storrold's Point close to Hardhome and he rarely ventures from there. Yet here he is, sitting in Clegane's Burrow, in the crude but spacious hall in the centre of the fast rising keep.

"What brings you here, Bylle?" Sandor grunts. "Our southern stink drifting into your nose, too close to your liking, is that it?"

The group arrived at dusk; too small to pose a real threat with only a handful of men dressed in so thick layers of fur that they look more like bears and creatures of the forest than human beings. Sandor allowed them to enter inside the freshly raised palisade despite his trepidation – in the North one couldn't turn travellers away from one's gate unless it was known beyond doubt that they came with ill intent. People's lives could be dependent on hospitality of strangers in long stretches of wilderness.

While the other men are still milling in the inner court, Bylle follows Sandor inside, dropping his furs as he walks. They sink down to sit on heavy benches across a sturdy wooden table, regarding each other cautiously.

Although this is the first time the two of them meet, Bylle doesn't flinch at the sight of Sandor's burned visage. For a long time he is silent before finally opening his mouth. His voice is low and raspy as if not much used.

"I was told to come here."

Sandor waits for him to continue but it appears that he has said his piece and is now content to wait for Sandor's response.

"Who told you so? And why? Do you come in peace or in war? Don't think that we are afraid of you or your mongrels, don't think that at all." Sandor doesn't remove his eyes from his guest, responding to his wordless challenge with determination.

"A wise soul told me I should send my men to two places to find something that I was supposed to find. So I did; one group to Thenn and one group to Skaagos. Both of them came back with unexpected discoveries - which in turn led me here." He gestures at one of his men who has quietly entered the room. "Get them."

The man nods and walks out of the door, only to return a few short moments later with two – no, three - others. One of the new arrivals is just a young boy, another a huge man carrying a girl in his arms. The man is tall, even taller than Sandor, and has a friendly face covered with shaggy brown beard and long hair. When he gets closer Sandor realises that he is not holding a girl after all, but a boy; frail and lean-bodied with piercing eyes. Those eyes study him with intensity that makes him nervous against his will. When the giant lowers the boy on the bench and moves his legs so that he can sit, he understands: the boy can't walk. A sideways look towards the other boy confirms that he has a light auburn hair and deep blue eyes; Tully colouring. _The others take me! _

While he is still trying to accept the testimony of his own eyes, the crippled boy speaks. His voice is clear and loud and his speech is much too refined for a wildling. Sandor doesn't have to hear what he says say to know who he is.

"Sandor Clegane. So it is true, you have returned to the North. Do you know who I am?"

His mind swirls. Everyone thought the younger Stark boys to be dead, killed by Theon Greyjoy, and both were much mourned by their mother and siblings. Lady Catelyn often prayed in the Winterfell Sept in front of the Seven for the spirits of her young ones. Sansa had cried in his arms on the first anniversary of their deaths that they had spent in Winterfell.

"Bran, Brandon Stark of Winterfell." Sandor looks at the younger boy and sighs. "And Rickon Stark."

Bran nods but doesn't let his eyes leave Sandor's face. Rickon has followed their discussion but it is clear that he is not particularly interested in what they have to say. His eyes sweep curiously around the hall and its furniture, and Sandor suddenly remembers that he was very young when he was killed – or escaped, as it seems. He might not remember much about his old home or his family.

"How by the seven are you here, alive? Why in bloody hells haven't you returned to your home? Do you know how much your lady mother has missed you, _is_ missing you? And your kingly brother, and…"

"Sansa," Bran says softly. "Is it true too, is she here with you?" Bylle observes them quietly from his seat but his features don't reveal what he is thinking.

"Aye, Sansa is here. She is Lady Clegane now." For some reason he has to declare it outright, to assert that she is _his_ wife, and that he is not the dog he used to be when they last met.

"May I see her?" Rickon turns to Bran with a new interest in his eyes. Mayhap Bran has told him about their long-lost sister.

"What do you take me for? Would I deny her the reunion with her little brothers? Follow me." He gets up and walks towards the room at the back of the hall. Sansa has taken to rest in their chamber for most of the day now, her pregnancy so advanced that they are expecting the babe to arrive any day. He hopes that the shock of seeing his brothers returned from dead will not be too much for his little bird.

* * *

Sansa stirs when she sees Sandor approaching at the head of their small group; the giant with Bran, Rickon and Bylle. She is pale and struggles to lift herself in the bed, weighed down by her big belly.

"Sandor, this is a surprise." She is not pleased by the presence of strangers, he knows. She hates people seeing her so weak, so defenceless. Before she voices her displeasure Sandor steps to her side.

"Sansa, these are very special visitors, you'll want to meet them." He motions at the giant, who follows him and gently lowers Bran on the bed.

"Hodor!" he exclaims, and Sansa, who first looks shocked at the intrusion, draws a sharp breath. She looks at Bran and for a moment Sandor is afraid that she is going to faint. Bran smiles and terseness in his eyes melts away and he looks years younger.

"Sister!"

"Bran…this can't be true!" Sansa's eyes dart around the room and catch a sight of Rickon, who stands behind Bylle. "Rickon!" She throws her arms around Bran and clutches him tightly, weeping and laughing and whispering his name. Her chest is wracked with sobs and she pulls away only to gesture Rickon to come closer, and he does, climbing on the bed and shyly approaching weeping Sansa.

"You were thought to be dead, slain by Theon! People saw your burned bodies hanging in Winterfell yard, how is it possible that you are alive…" She has the boys in her arms and despite her clear discomfort when her belly gets in the way, she doesn't let them go. Both Bran and Rickon have thrown their arms around her, Bran closing his eyes and Rickon smiling, excited about this latest turn of events. Hodor sways on his feet and looks at the scene, grinning happily and saying "Hodor" over and over again until Bran turns his head and puts his finger on his lips as a sign to silence him.

Sandor feels a degree of uneasiness about witnessing this happy reunion. Siblings who actually love each other… He had observed that between Sansa and Robb, knowing the bond between them to be strong, forged even stronger through the hardships their family had gone through. He has never experienced any of that and hasn't missed it either. Yet… He shrugs his shoulders and turns to look at Bylle.

He has stayed by the door and it seems Sansa hasn't even noticed him in her happiness. He observes her, though, eyes narrowed. Sandor doesn't like the idea of the other man being there and he leans over Sansa and places his hand protectively on her shoulder. Feeling that she turns to him and clutches his fingers, drawing them against her face.

"Sandor, how did you do this? Where did you find them? Oh Sandor…" she presses her cheek in his huge palm for a moment before turning her attention back to her brothers.

Bran observes the exchange attentively before muttering to Sansa in a low voice, "Does he treat you well, sister?"

Sansa smiles. "He treats me better than any man could. I know it must appear strange, and I will tell you all about it, but he is my lord husband by choice and I love him." Bran nods and looks at Sandor sceptically. Yet he doesn't press it but takes his sister's hands into his again.

"What about mother? And Robb, and Arya?"

Sandor decides it is time to leave the siblings in each other's' company and walks to the door. He stops and pointedly waits until Bylle turns and leaves the room, then follows him back to the hall.

They sit on the same seats as before and Sandor takes the measure of the man anew.

"I asked you already what brought you here. You have answered my question only partially. Now spit out the rest, and don't try to hide anything." _Does he expect a reward or a boon for this? Why would he do a favour to Southerners?_

"I answered that I was _told_ to come here. It is a long story and a man can't talk with a dry throat," Bylle declares, staring purposefully at the back of the room where large casks of beer rest against the wall.

Sandor calls for a servant who soon hurries to bring them a tray with two large pints and a pitcher full of frothing beer.

"Let's talk then, wildling." Sandor bangs the pint in front of the King-Beyond-The-Wall with a resounding clank.


	31. Prophecy from the North

**_Summary:_** _The shadow of foreboding in Sandor's stomach has grown into a full-blown premonition. _If you are true to them, they will be true to you.

* * *

**Sandor**

The two men, leaders of their respected dominions, stay up late. Bylle's men retire into crude guest halls outside the main building, the keep's folk withdraws to their own sleeping quarters, but Sandor and Bylle drink and talk at unhurried pace in the dwindling light of the fireplace. In a typical northern way it takes a while before they get to the matter at hand, long pauses and affirming statements from both parties paving way for _real_ issues to come forward.

"You have downed half a barrel now, is your throat wet enough to tell the tale?" Sandor grunts, his curiosity finally winning over his reservations.

The other man lowers his pint and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He seems to gather his thoughts for a while.

"The wise soul who told me where to find the boys told me something else a long, long time ago. I was but a young hunter at the time, had hardly killed my first man or bedded my first woman. I was sitting by the fire guarding our camp when the seer came to sit my by side. He hadn't paid much attention to me before, but that night he sought me out and told me that one day, long time ahead in the future, a man from the south will come to the north. And that this man will be marked by a terrible fire, but he will also have a live fire by his side protecting him." He stops and glances meaningfully at Sandor. "She is stronger than you, you know that?"

As a matter of fact, Sandor is very aware of the fact, but doesn't like a complete stranger remarking on it so he ignores the statement.

"It didn't make any sense to me at the time. Who cared about things long into the future? Who cared about the Southerners? I almost forgot those words until hearing stories carried into our village about the burned man in Queenscrown."

Sandor stays still, an odd apprehension growing in his innards.

"As clear as it is that the moon follows the sun and that the northern lights can only be seen on a clear night, it is that _you_ are that man, and your woman is the fire by your side."

"What of it? Aye, mayhap I am, and mayhap she is. What is it to you?" He isn't sure if he likes the direction where the conversation is going.

Bylle toys with his pint, clearly discomfited by the words he spits out next.

"The seer told me that I should place my trust into this man and be true to him, as he was going to be the one to end the hostilities between our people and those beyond the Wall."

The shadow of foreboding in Sandor's stomach has grown into a full-blown premonition. _If you are true to them, they will be true to you._

"The seer – was she an old woman? Someone who travelled between the north and the south?" he rasps.

Bylle looks surprised. "A woman? No, he is a man, who has lived with us all his life. Why do you ask?"

"Might be that I have heard of a similar prophecy once, but from an old hag. I was younger myself too, half the age I am now." Bylle's expression changes into curious and he rubs his chin in contemplation for a while.

"Our wise man has never stepped beyond the borders of our lands. But his father was a warrior from a powerful family of shamans and wise men and women, who stole a girl from the Gift as his woman. Two children they had, a boy and a girl, and they lived together happily enough for many years. Then the woman wanted to go back to the land of her people and the man, loving her too much, let her go. She took their daughter with her and left the boy with his father. Nobody ever heard of them again."

Sandor's head spins. _Family of powerful shamans?_ Could it be…it _must_ be.

Haltingly he shares his own prophecy and that of Sansa's with his guest, leaving out the part about their love and the prediction regarding their children. Bylle nods at his story and when he finishes, they sit in silence for a long time.

"Must have been the daughter. Seer like her family. Don't know what became of her, and like you, I didn't heed her words for a long, long time. Yet, she said some other…things that have become true." Sandor shifts in his seat and wonders if anything in his life has been his own doing, or whether he and everyone else has only followed a fate already preordained to be theirs.

"Became true? Yes, our seer has also told us many things that have become to be exactly as he stated them. He was the one who predicted Mance's fate at the Frozen Shore. Mance didn't listen to him though – and paid the price."

"Where does this leave things between us?" Sandor isn't able to think straight – it has been a long day, surprise of the Stark boys and now _this_ draining his reserves. Aye, he wants to establish good relationships with the people who are more at home in this harsh land than he can ever be. He also feels that he owes it to the old woman, whose words in subtle ways led him towards his current contentment with Sansa.

"You tell me, southerner," Bylle grunts, then stands up. "I will still have my men taking turns to stand in guard over our group tonight. I am sure you understand that."

Sandor arises as well. "Aye, I wouldn't expect anything less. I will have _my_ men guarding over the lot of you. I am sure you understand that."

* * *

Sandor slips silently into their chamber, only the light of a single candle showing his way. He walks to the bed he shares with Sansa and as he expected, sees it already full. Sansa lies on her back – the only position she finds even reasonably comfortable in her advanced stage – with Bran on her left, Rickon on her right side. His mouth twitches at the sight. W_olfpack together again._ Sighing he gathers some furs from the corner, throws them on the floor and settles down on top of them. Being used to sleeping on a hard ground he has no difficulties accepting his lot. Despite the baffling events of the night darkness claims him and he falls asleep instantly.

* * *

The business of being a lord is still new to Sandor. For a man who has lived all his life taking orders from others, adjusting to the role of a leader is a challenge. It takes him a long time to realise than when he walks into a group of men and they fall silent, it is not because they are afraid of him or because of their underlying contempt towards him, as before - but because of _respect_. They stop and look up to him as he is supposed to _lead_ them, and they expect him to do just that.

In the matters of action he has no difficulties; he is used to commanding men when there is something to do, be it a battle or skirmish, surveillance mission, training or anything where it is a matter of _doing_ something. Yet when it comes to making strategic decisions or weighing up different options on how to proceed, he sometimes has to stop and think, defer his decisions overnight and try to come to grips with possible consequences of his actions.

This frustrates him and makes him curse himself as weak, and hence he is mightily surprised when Sansa tells him that unlike what he thinks, his people take him for a better leader just _because_ of that. He is not seen rash or thoughtless, but prudent, considering all options before making up his mind. The notion befuddles him but he accepts it just the same.

That he discusses all the big decisions with Sansa is granted, as Sansa was born to the family of rulers and from a young age has been exposed to challenges of leadership, first in Lord Eddard's, then in King Robb's court. Her years in King's Landing observing Joffrey and Cersei have not been wasted either, although from a different angle; how _not_ to behave as a ruler.

Sandor grunts that by all rights she should be the one sitting in the lord's chair, and while laughing at the notion Sansa promises that as soon she is out of her confinement, she will sit by his side in the Far-North council meetings. She extracts from him a promise that she will be handed some aspects of the governance of the keep. Not only traditional womanly pursuits of general household running and provisions, but also the amalgamation of the two groups of people together; the unruly wildlings and stubborn northerners.

And that is exactly what is sorely needed now that he and Ormar Bylle have joined their forces.

* * *

Sansa's second childbed is easier and quicker, and whether it is because of Bran refusing to leave her side and rubbing his hands all over her swollen body and her sweaty brow, muttering words that nobody else hears, in the end it takes hardly half a day for Sansa to give birth to their second child.

It is a girl, and if possible, even smaller and more delicate than Norr was as a newborn. Her little mouth is as a bud of pink roses Sandor remembers seeing in the gardens of King's Landing. If he harboured any doubts about how there would be room in his heart for this little person, it being already so fully occupied by his love for his wife and son, those qualms soon fly out of his mind when he rests his eyes on the babe on Sansa's arms.

"She will have a red hair like mine," says Sansa and combs her fingers through a few silken threads on the babe's temples.

"Another fire tormenting me, no doubt," Sandor grunts, trying to hide his emotions. Sansa raises her eyebrows and turns the babe in her arms to have a better look at her tiny face.

"Fire, you say? Yes, although she is a daughter of the North, she will still be as much of the fire as Norr is of the ice. What say you if we call her Fira?"

"Fira Clegane? I like the sound of that. No fancy names or names of dead people to my children." One again Sandor is happy to leave the naming to his wife – she is better in it anyway. He marvels how his life seems to be so determined by the concept of fire; first harsh, cruel and painful, now warm, tender and loving. More practice with Norr under his belt he extends his hands towards his daughter and carefully picks her up. She fits completely between his big palms and he lifts her higher, close to his face.

"Fira, Queen of the North, welcome to this world."


	32. New Far-North

**_Summary:_** _Sansa has healed him in all ways that it is possible for one person to heal another; she has lanced the boil of rage inside him. There are always going to be scars and rough edges left behind, which he still shows when his patience is tested, but he knows he is a better person than he used to be and it is all because of her. His little bird._

* * *

**Sandor**

Years go by quickly.

Clegane's Burrow grows both in size and in significance, the truce forged between the King-Beyond-The-Wall and the Warden of the Far-North ensuring peaceful movement of people across the border. Many wildlings come to Queenscrown and surrounding lands, some to work in the open mines established there to dig up precious metals, some to become traders of furs and tar made out of wood chopped from the vast forests and distilled in huge tarn kilns. Alongside them toil men and women of the North, all the way from the Neck and some from even further south, from King Stannis's kingdoms.

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea grows into a prosperous harbour town where ships take the local bounty to the South; first to pay King's tithe, later to be exchanged for goods needed in the North. Traders from across the narrow sea start to gradually find their way there too, bringing with them a new influx of necessities and luxuries never before seen in those lands.

The keep itself is now a spacious castle with one high turret and many low, sweeping stone buildings scattered around the edges of its stone walls. Multiple wooden huts have sprung up in and out of the keep for residents and visitors, and a small village is growing around the lake over the older, by now disintegrated housing. The original turret on the little island has been repaired and serves as a family resident when Lord and Lady Clegane and their growing family want to get out of the hustle and bustle of the keep.

* * *

Sansa carries yet another child; a dark haired boy with eyes that start as blue but in his early years change to dark grey, just like his sire's. He is called Orm, after Ormar Bylle, who over the years has become a close friend to House Clegane.

Several months after the King-Beyond-The-Wall's first visit it was Sandor's turn to travel to his lands to seal the treaty they had negotiated. He was determined to take his family with him, knowing the significance of the prophecy for Sansa, for himself, for Bylle and for all the folk in the North. His bannermen warned him and told him to be reckless to take them along, as everyone knew that wildlings couldn't be trusted. Yet he knew that it was _exactly_ why he had to take them with him. If he didn't, showing his distrust to his host, the fragile arrangement between two proud people would have been in danger of falling apart even before it had truly started.

The trip succeeded beyond expectations. Not only were the matters of the northern lands sorted out, but a close friendship formed between the two unlike families. Ormar's woman Yumma had given birth to their firstborn at about the same time as Sansa, and when Sansa's milk started to dry during their visit, Yumma placed Fira on her ample bosom and suckled her side by side with her own son Tarmur.

In later years Sandor often teased Fira about her wildling part, entered into her in mother's milk, but Fira didn't mind. On the contrary, she seemed proud to have that special connection with the people who were important for her family and their lands.

* * *

Over the years Sansa pays many visits to her home in Winterfell; the first soon after Bran and Rickon eventually leave Queenscrown for their real home. Despite Sandor's objections she purses her lips determinedly together and declares that she i_s_ going, and there is nothing he can do to change her mind. This is her change to be united with her family, something she never imagined to be able to do, and she is not going to let a small thing like a babe in her arms and a toddler in her skirts to keep her away.

Grudgingly Sandor agrees and sends his best men with his family to make sure they will be safe. If after their departure men-at-arms at Clegane's Burrow find their lord even more testy and short-tempered than before, they are prudent enough to keep their opinions to themselves. After two weeks Sandor breaks and rides to Winterfell as if seven devils were at his heels. When he reaches it sweaty and exhausted, Sansa is not the least surprised – and he doesn't even mind.

In turn they have visitors from Winterfell. Not only officials, traders and soldiers on increasingly frequent trips between the two most important keeps in the North, but family members as well. King Robb and Queen Jeyne with their two young boys Ned and Rickard visit them several times over the years, and lady Catelyn comes often, one time staying for almost two years. She seems happy to bounce her grandchildren on her knee and to look after them in her quiet, dignified way.

Arya comes there so often that she becomes almost a part of the permanent household. To everybody's surprise she agrees to an arranged marriage with an old lord from the Neck that Robb suggests. Her brother hardly believes his ears when Arya accepts the man's proposal, but she is true to her word and seemingly forms a true friendship and quiet understanding with her lord husband. Not that she is often seen under his roof, spending most of her time in the North, always traveling in the company of her wolf Nymeria and a smith with black hair and blue eyes. Sandor never finds out how the man – Gendry is his name – has made his way into Arya's company and her bed, but he is not one to pry. Besides, the lad is a good sort, despite having been in the group of outlaws who ransomed Arya back to her family all those years ago.

* * *

Sandor comes home tired and weary, having spent the whole day in negotiations with a group of farmers over a dispute of some fields. He enters the private solar above the great hall but to his surprise finds it almost empty. Looking around he realises that it has been cleaned, fresh herbs strewn around the room and the table set with delicacies usually reserved only for high guests; a whole steaming chicken, a pastry made of fine flour and filled with meat and vegetables and sweet cakes drenched in sugar. He notices even a flagon of sweet wine from Dorne, brought with great effort all the way to Queenscrown. Candles and a roaring fire in the fireplace light the display.

He also sees no signs of his family; no Norr running around with a wooden stick horse Sandor has carved to him with his own hands; no Fira demanding to be told stories by Sansa, no Orm gurgling happily in his crib. Only Sansa comes to greet him, dressed in a courtly dress he last saw her wearing a few years ago during a royal visit Robb and Jeyne paid to their Wardens of the Far-North.

"What the hells is this?" he demands to know, curious. It has been a long time since they have been alone, just the two of them. Only the nights they spend in each other's embrace are the last bastion of their privacy - but most of the time that is enough.

Sansa comes to him and starts unbuckling his swordbelt and tugging his hauberk to remove it.

"This is a night for just the two of us. The children are with their nurses and the servants have been told not to disturb us at bane of death until tomorrow morning," she whispers while her deft fingers make quick work of his outer garments. Soon he is dressed only in his tunic and breeches and follows Sansa to the table, where she hands him a goblet of sour red.

"Why? Not that I mind, woman, but what is the reason?" he grumbles contentedly while stretching his long legs towards the warmth of the fire.

Sansa looks at him and bites her lip. "Today – or one of these days, I am not _exactly_ sure when – is the anniversary of the day you took me away from King's Landing. I thought it deserves to be celebrated."

He raises his head. _Bloody hells, so it might be!_ He has never paid much attention to the events of the days gone by, preferring to erase them from his mind. If he stops to think about it for too long, he remembers the angry, spiteful man he was at the time, wanting to crush and defeat the naïve maiden, and he hates himself for it once again.

"Don't we have better days to celebrate?" he can't help himself asking hoarsely, disturbed even by that brief glance into the long buried past.

Sansa sits down next to him on the bench, so close that her breast brushes against his arm. Despite years of marriage and three children they have made together, he feels his lust rising. Sansa is not the lithe maid she once was, but he loves the rounded woman she has turned into, her hips swaying as she walks, her breasts still carrying the signs of the gift of life she has given to babes born of their union.

"What day would you have in mind then?" She portions pieces of pastry onto their shared platter and breaks them apart leaving a trail of crumbs on the table as she lifts the choicest portion to his lips. He eats it from her fingers and licks them afterwards, capturing every little speck.

"Don't we already raise the toast on our wedding day every year?" he suggests. Sansa frowns but doesn't stop feeding him.

"It is a public celebration, everyone knows when that event took place. I had in mind something private that only two of us know."

Sandor tries to think. The Battle of Blackwater – aye, he took her then with him, but he had nothing romantic in mind – he thinks. After all these years he still couldn't say _why_ he had done it; why had he rushed to her rooms instead of those of his royal charge, King Joffrey.

"How about the day when you first fell in love with me?" teases Sansa. She has moved on to the chicken and pierces pieces of it into her knife and offers every other mouthful to Sandor, lifting every other into her own mouth.

As hard as he tries to think, he can't pinpoint a specific day when he first fell in love with her. He knows very well the day when he _admitted_ it to himself, long time before he confessed it to her. He has never spoken about this to her and despite the ties that by now bind them together, he hesitates for a moment.

"The night in the merchant's camp, when I had bruised your wrists and the merchant's sons tried to make you to leave me – and when you told them that you didn't leave me because you loved me… I knew it to be only a ruse, like everything else in our deception, but that night I admitted to myself that I _wanted_ you, that I wanted _you_ to want me…" He stops, the memory of his anguish in the face of his hopeless surrender still being raw.

Sansa raises her eyebrow. "Oh. That explains why you changed your behaviour towards me. I didn't know – I _hoped_, but I couldn't be sure."

"What would _you_ choose as the day for us to celebrate"" he challenges her. She looks thoughtful and stalls for a moment by pouring more wine into their goblets.

"When did I fall in love with you? I honestly can't say. I was afraid of you for a long time, but even while in King's Landing, my fear abated and I started to trust you instead. Oh, I was still _wary_ of you, like one is of a wild animal. It can tolerate your presence but you never know when it is going to turn against you and bite." She blushes. "Do forgive me, I didn't mean to suggest you were an animal then, I only…"

"I _was_ an animal then, a rabid hound, no point sugar-coating the truth!" he snarls. "Never try to make our story into something it isn't."

She looks at him steadily and nods. "Our story is what happened and no amount of words will change it. I think I did fall for you – or realised I had done so – when the merchant wanted to leave you behind after you had been wounded. I knew then that abandoning you and continuing by myself would have been the hardest thing for me, even harder than was my separation from the rest of my family. I knew that should that happen, I would never see you again. Just thinking about it gave me such a fright that I found in myself strength and reserves I didn't know I possessed until then."

"And you stood your ground and demanded them to take me along," he mutters and avoiding the morsel she is pointing towards him leans against her throat and bites that instead, softly, gently. "That was the first time you saved my life. I could celebrate that, although it took me a long time still to admit what I felt."

Sansa leans into his touch, food forgotten. She drops the knife and lets her hands to trace his hard muscles and strong back, slipping under his tunic.

"And then there is the day when you first kissed me, in the Wolfswood. I was so afraid for you then too, frantic with worry that the wolves had got to you," she sighs, her hands sliding up and down his body, tracing the familiar contours, stopping in places where she knows he most likes to be touched.

Sandor traces kisses along her collarbone and further down, pushing the fabric of her dress lower to reveal her breasts to his touch. Her skin is sweeter than sugared cakes, more honeyed than the sweet wine from Dorne.

"That was the day when you saved me for the third time and I had to concede that _you_ were the one; that the prophecy was true and I couldn't escape it anymore," he mutters against her skin. Sansa breaths heavily and changes her position so that she is sitting astride on his lap, lifting her skirts so that he can reach her better.

"Damn, woman, I would happily celebrate every fucking day I have spent with you," he growls and gets up, lifting her into his arms and taking her to their chamber. The food can wait, the wine can be drunk later. All he has in mind now is to take his wife, the woman who so bewitched him many years ago and still enchants him every day. His hunger for her has never abated, only changed from the ravenous need of their early days of passion into a basic requirement he couldn't live without anymore; to a deeper, stronger connection, forged tougher by their years together and the shared bond of their children.

Sansa has healed him in all ways that it is possible for one person to heal another; she has lanced the boil of rage inside him. There are always going to be scars and rough edges left behind, which he still shows when his patience is tested, but he knows he is a better person than he used to be and it is all because of her. His little bird.


	33. Fates of the Realm

**_Summary:_** _Tiny drops of salty water sprinkle them as the ship braces the waves. Sandor looks at the receding coastline and hopes that the trip is not a mistake; that it will not bring back cruel memories better forgotten. He looks at Sansa who stands wrapped in furs and stares ahead with a resolute expression on her face._

* * *

**Sandor**

News from the rest of Westeros reaches Queenscrown quickly due to new trade routes and increased traffic between the North and the South. They hear how the Dragon Queen, the last of the Targaryens, arrives to King's Landing in the head of a large military force. Yet instead of a new war and more bloodshed, her visit leads to a surprise solution.

King Stannis has always maintained that all he did was because of his duty as the remaining legitimate heir of King Robert, the first of his name. Yet when Daenarys Stormborn declares herself and the pretender Aegon Targaryen is revealed a fraud, Stannis has to face the fact that there is someone with even better claim to the Iron Throne. It being also widely known that initially he had only reluctantly joined his brother's rebellion, the king soon comes to grips with the fact that it is he, not Daenerys, who is the usurper.

Yet even bigger surprise is when the young queen, after residing in Westeros only half a year, declares it to be too cold, too dull and too unappealing for her to maintain it as her permanent seat. She offers the Six Kingdoms to Stannis to serve as a client king; he is to swear loyalty to her, but otherwise he can rule as he has done so far. The queen even goes as far as to promise to consider succession in Stannis's favour as she herself is known to be barren and no children of her own will follow her reign. She proposes a match between Princess Shireen and Trystane from House Martell, who were her early and most loyal supporters, and the match is accepted by both Stannis and his daughter.

And so it is that King Stannis continues his rule of all the kingdoms bar the Kingdom in the North, and misery of war is averted. High Queen Daenarys returns to her powerbase in Meereen with her army and her Northern lover, and the whole realm sighs in relief.

* * *

Besides that significant episode in the annals of Westeros, another one, much closer to home, affects the life of Wardens of the Far-North.

The threat in the North in the form of mysterious creatures called White Walkers and their servants Wights - dead made living again - has plagued the Wall for many years. So far they have been kept under control by the Night's Watch, boosted by wildlings willing to join them to protect their own lands, but gradually the pressure from the foes becomes too much. At that point High Queen Daenerys is already the overlord of the Six Kingdoms and her help is sought. She agrees, seeing the threat for what it is; an eternal battle between the ice and fire, and comes to the Wall with her dragons.

Lord and Lady Clegane house her and her entourage and together with the rest of their folk marvel the scaly beasts she travels with. Norr and Fira are old enough to appreciate the occasion and seeing the exotic animals and people traveling with the queen ignites a fire inside Norr that doesn't leave him even after the visitors depart.

Daenerys is impressed by Sandor's burned face, declaring him to be marked by the sigil of her house, and becomes friendly with Sansa. Their similar tribulations during their formative years make the two women understand each other in a way no others could.

Sansa and Sandor often discuss how lucky they are because the queen's closest confidant and lover is a man from the North. Ser Jorah is impressed by growth and prosperity he witnesses, extending also to his loved Bear Island. Under his influence – they have no doubt about it – Daenerys herself looks favourably upon them and lets the arrangement between the independent North and the rest of Westeros to stay as it was.

The Battle of the Others is fought and the dragons reign superior, defeating the enemy so thoroughly that no signs of them are seen after that.

* * *

Whether it is the spark ignited by the Dragon Court's visit, but as Norr becomes older, he becomes keener and keener to travel to faraway lands to witness all their wonders with his own eyes. He grows up a fine young man, not as strong or impressive as his father, but tall and finely-built with dark auburn hair and blue eyes. He takes to books well and from young age joins the council sessions in Clegane's Burrow, showing maturity and understanding of matters affecting the life of nobles and common folk alike.

Fira is the mirror image of her mother; a lithe, delicate girl with long auburn hair and eyes as blue as Sansa and Catelyn's, and she is loved by everyone who crosses paths with her. She is inquisitive by nature, passionate and loving, and has a large group of friends among low and high. Yet her best friend is Tarmur, son of Ormar Bylle, who often visits Clegane's Burrow. Likewise, when Sandor visits his long-time ally in the business of the North, Fira often insists on joining him.

Sansa and Sandor discuss about the possibility that the queenship that was prophesised to one of their daughters might as a matter of fact be less literal than they thought. Although wildlings still resist formality of hereditary kingship, it is very likely that young Tarmur will follow the footsteps of his father as a ruler of the free people. Yet both children are much too young to seriously consider the prospect, so they put aside any concerns about the future of their lovely daughter for the time being.

The youngest, Orm, is Sandor's son in all that matters. He outgrows his siblings at young age and takes to training and physical exercise as a natural extension of his being. He loves outdoors and can always be counted on to follow a hunting pack or to join inspection tours of the lands and mines. Sometimes he disappears for days on end, taking only his sturdy small mount and some camping gear with him. Sansa worries when this first happens, but soon she and Sandor get used to seeing him come back scruffy, dirty and ravenously hungry, but happy and contended after discovering some so far undiscovered hidden valley or a cave in the vicinity of Clegane's Burrow.

* * *

Yet Sansa doesn't conceive again. They both expect her to fall pregnant soon after Orm is weaned, as she did with their other children. That she doesn't, is certainly not due to lack of trying, as they love each other as often and as profoundly as ever, never getting tired of each other's body and the closeness such intimate act confers to them.

Yet years go by and Sansa doesn't quicken. She grows increasingly anxious about it, protesting to Sandor how she is _supposed _to have one more child. Sandor tries his best to console her at those times when her moonblood comes upon her, but doesn't know if he has the right words.

"Prophecies don't always come true literally, little bird," he murmurs and pulls his weeping wife against his broad chest. He knows that what they have already is much, too much, and fuck if he deserves any of it, but there it is just the same.

"But it said _four_!" sobs Sansa. "All my children have grown and I so much long to hold another one in my arms, smell the newborn's pure scent and suck the babe on my breasts. This is not _fair!"_

All Sandor can do is to stroke her hair and speak soothing words.

"Didn't the old hag tell that I would be a lord of vast lands, so vast that it would take a rider three days to travel from one end to another? And yet our dominions are much larger than that. You see, the prophecy was not correct there either. Three days or ten days, as it more truthfully is – or three children or four. These things are not exact, you know they aren't."

Sansa stops crying only for long enough to point him that as a matter of fact his personal lordship extends to much lesser area than that of his wardenship, but Sandor refuses her argument and soon they are debating the matter so keenly that Sansa's sorrow over one more month lost is forgotten – for that time.

* * *

When Norr is thirteen he hears about the delegation King Robb is sending to the South; first to King's Landing to join forces with a larger group sent by King Stannis, then to Meereen to visit High Queen Daenerys as part of the regular interactions between the two rulers. From that day onwards he doesn't stop pestering Sandor and Sansa about being allowed to travel with them.

Sandor is uneasy about the prospect. Despite his initial misgivings he has grown to love all his children equally and passionately, and with that has come the desire to protect them from any harm. To his surprise, they love him back as fiercely and loyally as his wife. He tries to hide his dark moods and short temper from them, the last remnants of the Hound, but that turns out to be futile. Yet it doesn't diminish their love and for that he is grateful. To whom, he is not sure; not to some buggering gods, that much is sure, but maybe there is a deity somewhere to whom he could offer his grudging gratitude.

For a long time they resist Norr's entreaties, but Sandor soon learns that his son can be pig-headedly stubborn when he wants to. Sandor and Sansa start to consider that maybe it is Norr after all who is to become the explorer of faraway lands, instead of becoming the new lord in the Far-North as everyone has always assumed due to his position as their first-born son.

Eventually they agree, worn out by persistence of their son. To Sandor's surprise Sansa suggests joining the procession until King's Landing to escort Norr on his way, taking Fira with them. The trip would be the first time either of them would be back since the night of the Blackwater. Discomfited by her suggestion, Sandor is not sure what to think about it. All the unhappy memories of the events that took place there, of the man he used to be. How would little bird endure that?

Yet if that is her wish, he acquiesces to it as he does to almost anything she asks.

And so it is that one sunny morning they find themselves sailing away. Cold wind nips their faces as they stand against the railing of a fast ship as it sails out of the harbour of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Tiny drops of salty water sprinkle them as the ship braces the waves. Sandor looks at the receding coastline and hopes that the trip is not a mistake; that it will not bring back cruel memories better forgotten. He looks at Sansa who stands wrapped in furs and stares ahead with a resolute expression on her face.

Even after all the years they have been married he has to admit that he doesn't always know what his wife thinks. Yet that is one part of their union that makes it strong: they are both entitled to their secrets and dark moments, or little moments of joy. He never takes her as granted despite she by law being under his rule as a wife is supposed to be governed her husband.

Sandor snorts. Whoever would try to rule her would be in trouble indeed. As if sensing that his thoughts are about her, Sansa turns and smiles at him, reaching her hand across the small distance that separates them. He moves to her side and holds onto her and together they watch the coast slowly slide by.


	34. Ghosts of the Past

**_Summary:_** _The realisation fills him with relief and he recognises that this is what he too must do. Not try to hide or deny the unpleasant past but to face it, laugh at it and show how he has moved on._

* * *

**Sandor**

Sandor notices that the Red Keep has hardly changed, after having spent only a few days there. One of the biggest differences is that instead of his modest room near the garrison or his small cell in the White Sword Tower during his time in the Kingsguard, he and Sansa reside in spacious well-appointed guest rooms in the Maidenvault.

They are warmly received by King Stannis, who despite his old age still sits on the Iron Throne rigidly but dutifully. Princess Shireen and Prince Trystane stand by his side with their two boys, who are as well-behaving and obedient as can be expected from Stannis Baratheon's grandchildren. The elder son is named Aegor, the youngest Rhaeron in a Targaryen fashion as a nod to the Dragon Queen. They soon become friends with Norr and Fira and especially Aegor and Fira become inseparable, going everywhere in the castle together.

Over the next few weeks Sandor and Sansa examine the keep, visit the city and many other places, sometimes together, sometimes separately. Sandor's feelings are mixed; sparring in the training yard to maintain his fitness he remembers the rage that drove him in the past, often seeing him there early in the morning or after everyone else had left in the evening. He used to fight whoever was foolish enough to stand against him, or when lacking a training partner, spent his anger on straw dummies. He can still feel the ghost of that rage and it makes him uneasy to remember how pervasive it used to be in his being.

Passing by the recess in the battlements, where he used to sit his evenings nursing skins of wine and drinking himself into a quiet stupor to hold at bay nightmares that visited him during the darkest hours – nightmares so vivid that waking up in cold sweat he could almost smell the acrid odour of burned flesh – the memory of those almost forgotten visions makes his stomach clench.

Observing Stannis passing judgment in courtly sessions brings to his mind all those hours he used to stand next to Joffrey doing the same, and the contempt he felt for commoners bleating about their starving children and injustices done to them. He used to believe that the world was ruled by sharp steel and strong arms and if people couldn't protect themself, they should die and get out of the way of those who could. Only in Winterfell had he started to see behind the façade of smallfolk, into their little lives and concerns - and only after becoming a father himself, he started to understand the depths of desperation a worry over one's children can drive a man. Again he winces remembering the hard man he used to be.

Hence Sansa's behaviour baffles him. At least he was one of those in charge, whereas Sansa was only a helpless victim. He sees Sansa visiting many places that _must_ remind her about the miseries she suffered. She visits the Great Sept of Baelor and kneels on the spot where her father was executed, praying to the old gods for a long time. Sandor stands back, uncomfortably reminded of that day when he just stood there, seeing Sansa's distress and knowing that injustice was being done in front of his eyes then and there – and he had done nothing.

One day Sansa takes him to the battlements where Joffrey placed the heads of Eddard Stark and Septa Mordane. Sandor cringes and wonders what madness has overtaken his wife that forces her to open old wounds. He closes his eyelids for a moment and sees her as she was that day; red-rimmed eyes, pale complexion, blood on her lip where Meryn Trant's gauntlet hit her. He opens his eyes and sees her as she is now; a few fine lines on her face and a proud bearing of a woman who knows her worth and is comfortable in the life she leads. Suddenly he thinks of the handkerchief he wiped her lip with and wonders what happened to it. That gesture was calculated on his part to protect – who? Yet it had been the first time he had saved her life.

They visit the Great Hall often enough in official occasions, but once Sansa leads him there in the middle of the afternoon when it is quiet. She beckons him to stand next to the throne on the spot where he used to guard Joffrey. Sansa herself walks in front of the dais and kneels on the floor, staring at the seat of swords with a determined look on her face. He doesn't understand what she is doing, but once again he is prompted by a recollection he wishes he wasn't; the time when Joffrey had Sansa's dress torn in front of the whole court. How she had cried and sobbed – and how he had just stood his ground, his feeble attempt of halting the proceedings not being sufficient to save her from the humiliation.

He almost steps down to drag her away, angry for why she should torment both of them so, when the expression on her face arrests him. She looks ahead, seriously – and then she breaks into a small smile. It is subtle, but it is a smile nonetheless, a victorious smirk of an opponent who looks upon a defeated foe on the battlefield. She lifts her head up in a proud gesture and squares her shoulders.

And suddenly he understands. _She came here to erase the ghosts of the past. She wanted to show them that they didn't defeat her._

The realisation fills him with relief and he recognises that this is what _he_ too must do. Not try to hide or deny the unpleasant past but to face it, laugh at it and show how he has moved on.

It is his turn to smile and he descends the steps slowly, crouching in front of Sansa and taking her hands into his.

"We won, Sansa. You won, I won. We came through it all. They didn't."

Sansa looks at him solemnly and he knows she understands. He gets up and helps her on her feet and together they walk out of the hall, arm in arm, leaving the shadows of the past behind them.

After that Sandor's heart feels lighter and he re-visits all the places that discomfited him and others besides: winesinks in Flea Bottom, where he drowned the pains within, and pleasure houses in the Street of Silk, where he attempted to find poor substitutes for a real human touch. He stares at his past straight in the eye and tells it _I was that man once but not now. I have left that life behind and it has no hold over me anymore._

And he is glad that Sansa made him come back.

* * *

Sandor stands on the steps of serpentine stairs, trying to decide whether he should start up or down. Before he can make up his mind, a small figure rushes headlong against him from around the corner, and he has to grip the wrist of the girl before she falls down. _"It's a long roll down the serpentine, little bird. Want to kill us both? Maybe you do."_ flashes through his mind. In a shock he takes a look at the girl in his arms and for a moment he fears he has been transported back in time – so uncannily the scene reminds him of the previous time he stood here, holding the little bird in his grip.

Then he recognises that instead of Sansa, it is Fira, his own daughter. Instead of a frightened look on her face, she is laughing.

"Papa! Let me go, otherwise Aegor will catch me!" she giggles. She is beautiful, Sandor realises – not only in his father's eyes, but in the eyes of anyone. Aye, she is still young, but only somewhat younger than Sansa was when he held her thus.

They hear fast steps approaching and soon Aegor rushes in chuckling, only stopping suddenly when he sees Sandor.

"My apologies, Lord Clegane. I was just, Fira and I were only…" the boy stammers.

Sandor doesn't mind the effect he has on him. As a matter of fact, he enjoys the fact that he can scare any young colts loitering around his precious daughter just by looking at them. Glancing at Fira and seeing her disappointed expression he however restraints himself and lets go of her.

"Be more careful, daughter. It is a long way down these steps and I rather not pick your crushed body from the bottom of it. You, boy! Look after her and if I ever see you two running around like an alley cat with its tail on fire, I'll beat your head in, royal or not!"

The boy gulps audibly and steps away, slowly and carefully. Fira only shrugs her shoulders.

"I promise we'll be more careful, papa. Now, could you just move aside so we can continue?" she gestures at Sandor who reluctantly moves aside. The youths are gone in a second and he stares after them, deep in his thoughts.

"_One day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no._ Haven't I sung it for you gladly as I promised?" Sansa's voice jolts him from his meditations and he turns around, seeing her standing there, a teasing smile on her face.

"Gods, woman!" He pulls her against his chest. "Have you ever!" He buries his face against her hair and breathes in its fresh smell. She responds by wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing tight.

"Was this another of the ghosts you had to banish?" he whispers softly against her brow. She looks up sharply.

"No, this was not a ghost, or at least not an evil one. Here I realised for the first time that you saw me as a woman – a chirping, stupid woman maybe, but a woman nonetheless."

"You were not a woman then, not at least one for me to look at. At the time." He holds her, not in a hurry to go anywhere.

"Maybe I was not a woman then, but I am now. And once again I am doing what women have been doing since the dawn of time." She speaks into the folds of his tunic.

"Hmm, and what is that?" He twirls a smooth strand of her hair between his rough fingers.

"I am with a child. _Finally."_ The tone of her voice can't be mistaken; it is triumphant, happy and just one small step away from smug.

Sandor closes his eyes and curses out loud. "Fucking hells!" Yet instead of being affronted or disappointed, Sansa only chuckles softly.


	35. Years through One's Fingers

**Authors' Notes:** This time the end is finally nigh! After this one I have outlined only three more chapters to go and then that's it for this "holiday dribble"… Thank you for everyone who has hung on for this long and special thanks for all the lovely comments you have left, which have been funny, inspiring, encouraging and absolutely stimulating… *hugs to all*

**_Summary:_** _Eventually Sansa's eyes dry and she goes searching for her babes, embarrassing young lord Norr by embracing him tightly in front of castlefolk, delighting Fira with a motherly hug and making Santina happy by taking her to share her mother's bed for the night so she can better hold her. Sandor sighs and makes his bed in the solar, but not before kissing his wife and his youngest a sweet goodnight._

* * *

**Sandor**

Their return trip is swift and they get back in plenty of time for Sansa to prepare for giving birth in Clegane's Burrow once again. Lady Catelyn and Arya have travelled there to be by her side and so their fourth child is born surrounded by all the strong women of House Stark.

The birthing is long and hard, Sansa having already passed her best childbearing years. Afterwards their maester gravely tells Sandor that it is unlikely that she will carry any more children, especially considering how long it took her to get pregnant in the first place.

He doesn't care about it, not now when he has a new life to hold in his arms once again. It is a girl, as they knew, and they name her Santina after both her mother and father. Arya takes to the new babe even more than she did with the others, possibly because of despite being married for a long time now, she still hasn't carried a babe of her own. Whether it is a respectful arrangement between she and her lord husband to save him from the indignity of his wife carrying a child for another man, or whether she simply is barren, nobody knows, not even Sansa.

* * *

After one year Norr comes home. He left as a boy and comes back as a man. His trip has been success by all counts and he saw more in that short time than most people in Westeros see in their whole life.

His return feels like a gust of fresh wind through the solemn fortress, and he fills long evenings in the hall with his colourful stories of strange and wonderful places. Initially Sandor is sure that he only came back for a while to rest and recuperate before going across the sea again. Hence he is surprised when a few weeks after his return Norr asks his father aside and they have a long conversation. It is their first as one adult to another and Sandor feels ridiculously proud of the way his son handles himself.

"Father, I loved my time away and I wouldn't change it for anything. Yet being gone also made me realise some important things," Norr starts and fidgets with his dagger while they sit on a bench at the battlements, looking over the flurry of activity in the inner yard and outside the keep.

"Aye, and what is that?" Sandor rasps, his eyes sweeping over his son's tall form and shoulders that have widened to those of a man's.

Norr directs a far-reaching look across the fields and the forests. "I realised that I belong here. This is where I want to live, to settle down and serve my people. Mayhap I will raise a family of my own one day, and if I do, I want them to learn to love the landscape and the wild beauty of this place as I have."

Sandor startles. This is exactly what he had already dared to hope, yet to hear just a young boy on the cusp of manhood speaking so resolutely about his love for a place and its people… _Hells, I was never as level-headed as he is! _

He reaches for his son and thumps him on the shoulder so that he almost falls from the bench.

"So it shall be. You'll stay here and you'll be the next Lord of Queenscrown and Warden of the Far-North and rule better than I ever did. What do I know about ruling, a warrior and a wind-blown from the west as I am?"

Norr smirks and seems to grow inches just from his father's words. And so the matter of succession is determined.

* * *

If Norr has satisfied his travel lust, the same can't be said about his brother. Spurred on by the stories he hears, Orm becomes determined that he is the next one to fly out of the nest to explore the wider world. Sansa and Sandor sigh and reside themselves to the fact that when the time comes, they have to let him go. Their only comfort is that it will be a long time still before they have to succumb to the inevitable.

Yet years go by quicker than a stream of sand passes through one's fingers.

* * *

Lady Catelyn moves permanently to Queenscrown to Sansa's delight, and Sandor has to admit that he too is pleased to see her there. It seems that in her older years she has relaxed her stance regarding propriety and honour, or maybe she is only being influenced by the behaviour of her rebellious daughters. Whatever it is, she is followed there by a knight from House Umber, a widower with whom Lady Catelyn has formed a close relationship. Whether they are only confidants of mind or whether proud Lady of Houses Tully and Stark lets the man in her bed, Sandor doesn't know - but from the contented manner the still handsome and genial knight purports himself, he ventures to guess the latter.

He is glad, and so is Sansa, as the matriarch of House Stark surely deserves some happiness of her own, it being so many years since she lost her lord husband. Everyone pretends not to notice anything and gradually the man, Ser Horen, is introduced to the folds of the family and becomes an integral part of their gatherings. When a year after their move they marry each other in a private family ceremony in the modest sept Sansa commissioned to be built, hardly anyone notices any difference in the way life goes on.

Arya's husband dies suddenly in his estate at the Neck for natural reasons. Arya seems genuinely to grief for him, although it doesn't take longer than a few moons when she weds her long-time companion Gendry. Less than years' time everyone's curiosity about her fecundity is answered when she delivers not one babe but two; healthy twin boys. Gendry can't stop grinning for weeks afterwards and it makes Sandor's heart lurch when he thinks back at the time when he first became father.

Bran stays in Winterfell and serves as a wise advisor to King Robb, being the first among his council. Rickon grows up to be a good warrior, hunter and leader of troops, but he doesn't settle in any particular place. Being the youngest son he has no burdens of ruling on his shoulders and he is contented to serve his older siblings Robb and Sansa, moving between their estates as he is needed. Eventually he marries Ormar Bylle's youngest daughter, and in time children follow, half-wildlings not only in blood but in temperament as well.

* * *

Santina is the apple of her parents' eye and grows up indulged by everyone; her father and mother, her older siblings, her grandmother and all the relatives and close friends of the family. Arya has continued to shower her with her attention, and very fitting it is, young Santina growing up as wilful and strong as her aunt was in her younger years. Her appearance reflects that of Arya's as well; grey eyes, dark hair and short but strong body.

Orm leaves in due course as everyone knew he would, he too joining King Stannis' delegation to Meereen as his first voyage. Before he leaves he proudly shows his parents the sigil he decided to take with him in his shield and in his cloak; a fierce, growling wolfhound. He explains that since his father's sigil is a dog and his mother's a wolf, it makes only sense for him to make his a combination of the two. Sandor sees the logic of it and congratulates him on his choice, but as he catches Sansa's eyes across the new shield he knows what she is thinking. _He will discover new and mysterious worlds and his sigil is that of a wolfhound,_ the prophecy said.

A year later Orm comes back but doesn't speak of his desire to stay. He is almost as tall and muscular as his sire, and when Sandor looks at him, he sees himself as he was in his youth. Hard grey eyes, straight black hair, his strength only surpassed by Sandor's own. The only thing missing is his disfigured face and the rage in his eyes, a rage that he carried all through his own young adulthood.

After hardly a year's stay, interrupted by shorter trips beyond the Wall all the way to the Frozen Shore, Orm leaves again and stays away for the best part of the next three years. Only an occasional message carried by traders or sellswords from wherever he has travelled finds its way through many hands to his parents. He is well, he assures in them, travelling across the red waste in Essos, or along the shores of Jade Sea, or visiting the bustling city of Qarth.

On those days Sandor has to console his wife who retires weeping to their chambers, clutching the note from her youngest son in her hands. The babe who grew up much too quickly, and who – despite prophecy already having told them how he is supposed to travel far – is still sorely missed. Sandor's own heart is heavy but he tries his best to soothe Sansa, whispering into her ear how their three other children are still with them, hale and hearty.

Eventually Sansa's eyes dry and she goes searching for her babes, embarrassing young lord Norr by embracing him tightly in front of castlefolk, delighting Fira with a motherly hug and making Santina happy by taking her to share her mother's bed for the night so she can better hold her. Sandor sighs and makes his bed in the solar, but not before kissing his wife and his youngest a sweet goodnight.


	36. New Lord

**_Summary:_** _Yet he can still manage, and if he is slower than before in anything he does, what of it? As long as Sansa stays by his side – and he knows that she will – what if his body gradually gives up on him? Sansa, who has started to gain matronly curves on her body and whose hair has turned greyer and lost some of its shine, but whose smile can still bring tears into his eyes._

* * *

**Sandor**

Fira eventually marries. For a long time neither Sandor nor Sansa could have guessed whether her heart would take him to further North, to the arms of her childhood friend Tarmur Bylle, or to the South, to the side of her more recent friend Aegor Martell. It seemed that for quite a while Fira herself didn't know which way she would go, but in the end it is to the South she travels in her wedding procession.

Aegor was so impressed with her after their meeting in King's Landing, that when it became a time to consider Fira's betrothal he insisted to be allowed to visit the Far-North. He spent there several moons, trying to win the beautiful daughter of House Clegane as his own. The trip was obviously worth his while as in the end Fira agreed. Although Sandor was initially worried that she simply gave in to the persistent suitor, she assured her father that it was truly love that she felt. With Tarmur it had always been more friendship, but the way Aegor made her feel… From her blushing Sandor saw it wiser not to continue the discussion, glad to be saved by Sansa who arrived to the scene of their father-daughter talk just in time.

With sadness they see their daughter on her way after the first wedding in Queenscrown, the second wedding planned to be celebrated in King's Landing with the whole court of nobles in attendance. Her parents are invited, of course, but both Sansa and Sandor have seen enough of King's Landing and don't feel a desire to go there again, even for their daughter's sake. She has her own life to live now and as is the way of the world, she has to leave her parents behind.

Besides, they have another wedding to celebrate soon, Norr having asked and received the hand of a young maid from House Cerwyn. Sandor can't resist a jape at young girl's expense in their wedding feast about her foolish relative, who once thought he could sneak his way into Sansa's good graces, but Sansa shushes him and he lets the matter be. The girl looks nice enough, not having any airs or graces and genuinely smiling to her new husband, who only grins stupidly back at her. Sandor sighs on his seat when he sees that. _Why in hells are young lovers always so damned stupid?_ Then he remembers his own struggles, and although they were driven by his self-loathing and bitter rage, they were certainly not any smarter, he grudgingly has to admit to himself.

* * *

And still years fly by, as softly and quickly as feathers of an owl brush over one's head in the middle of the night deep in the forest.

* * *

There are days when Sandor doesn't feel like getting up. The many wounds and hurts his body has endured during his hard life are starting to remind him of their existence. Especially on cold days his limbs crack and creak and stiffness in them refuses to go away until he has thoroughly warmed his muscles. He knows he is not as quick as he used to be, nor as strong. The first time one of the young soldiers defeats him in the training yard despite him giving to the fight all he had, Sandor has to finally acknowledge that his prime is behind him. His only consolation is that nobody noticed and only thought him to pretend defeat as he often did, in order to reward a particularly good fighter with the honour of beating the Hound himself.

After that day he gives up practising with soldiers, preferring to keep himself in condition by training with a few trusted old companions.

One morning when he is feeling particularly miserable he turns in their bed and looks at Sansa. She is sleeping peacefully, her hair cascading against the pillow. He notices a few strands of grey among the auburn that he has always so loved. She has also more lines on her face, wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but he knows that they follow the lines of her laugh, and the lines that form when she narrows her eyes in concentration when she attends to her many duties around the keep. Her shape is plumper, her hips and bosom heavier, and she is still the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he has ever seen.

He is conscious of his own deterioration; grey and white that have spread from a few strands on his temple and his moustache to practically cover his whole head and beard. Even hair on his chest is mostly grey and sometimes Sansa teases him how it reminds her of a wolf pelt and how fitting it is for her to be comforted by that sight in their bed. The lines on his face – he doesn't ever bother to think about them, so insignificant they are against the general ruin of his scars. Yet he couldn't care rats arse about his looks, but that his _body_, so honed and powerful and so capable of always doing whatever he asked it to do, is starting to fail him, makes him clench his fists in mute anger.

Then Sansa shifts and turns towards him, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Her fingers trace as if on their own accord along his chest, but from the way they purposefully travel lower he realises that she is not nearly as much asleep as she makes out to be.

When he hauls his body on top of hers and feels the familiar stirring of his cock he can't help smiling. No matter if his joints give him pain, he can still do _this._

Life is good.

* * *

The feast arranged to celebrate the new Lord of Clegane's Burrow and the new Warden of the Far-North is bigger than any seen in the North since the said lord's wedding ten year past. The guests come from as far North as Hardhome and as far South as White Harbor. The change of guard is danced over three evenings and at the end of it Sandor curses loudly that had he known what a bunch of ravenous locusts was going to descend into his halls to eat and drink it as empty as a simpletons skull, he would have held on to his lordship until the day he died.

The new Lord, Norr Clegane, only laughs at him and for a moment Sandor is irritated by how nobody seems to be afraid of him anymore. He longingly thinks back at times when all he had to do was to scowl and squires pissed their breeches. Then he sighs and looks at his family sitting comfortably all around him and decides that this is better, after all.

He decided to invest the lordship to Norr now rather than wait for his own death, knowing his son to be a good lord, better than himself. Or mayhap he was a better lord for the times when he started, times that were tough and bleak. Hard work and brute force were required to build the keep and the village out of packed earth, and for forging together two groups of people who had hated each other since the time immemorial. _He_ couldn't have done it without Sansa; he had no disillusions about that fact. Yet times have changed and now it is time for Norr to take up the reins and use his book knowledge and his skills in diplomacy to further improve the lot of their people. New industries and new customs are sweeping the realm and Norr can make sure that the Far-North and its folk benefit from them.

His eyes sweep past Santina, deep in discussion with her good uncle Gendry. She has blossomed to a beautiful woman, but she is not like other girls of her age who only think of how to attract an eye of a handsome warrior or a knight. _Knight!_ Sandor spits in the cup on the floor and is glad that the institution of knighthood has never been as much valued in these lands as it has in the rest of Westeros.

Santina is an unusual girl, that much everybody admits. She still dresses up as a boy whenever she can get away with it, despite her budding woman's body making it more difficult as eyes of men start to pay too much attention to her long legs and pert behind in breeches. She has practiced with men-at-arms all his life, but besides that part of her character, she has also taken to the old ways of the healers and wise-women of the North. She has already learned many forgotten wisdoms in her stays in movable camps many wildlings still live in, and with her learning in the keep under the tutelage of their patient maester, has started to write them down.

* * *

It is not only for the benefit of Norr and the folk in Far-North that Sandor decided to retire from his lordship. His body has lately been taken over by a strange fatigue, and that, combined with the pain from his old wounds, made it simply too hard for him to continue. He had to give up training some years past and he can see and feel how his once muscular body gradually starts to lose its bulk.

Instead of physical pursuits he spends time attending to his other interests. His faithful companion Stranger, having been dead for many years and buried in a quiet corner of the Godswood, left behind a legacy; a bloodline of the finest horses ever seen in the North. Over the years Sandor buys, steals and borrows the finest mares and stallions to breed with Stranger's offspring. Gradually his efforts are rewarded and he sees to his satisfaction the development of a perfect combination of his old mount's strength and endurance and patient nature and hardy countenance of heavily built Northern steeds. His horses become famous all across Westeros but only reluctantly he agrees to send a few of them to the South, to many lords who want nothing more than to own one of the renowned Clegane's horses.

His enjoyment of his own labours is limited to admiring colts and mares in the stables and stroking their smooth muzzles, his aching joints denying him even the simple pleasure of riding out with the early morning sun as he used to. That frustrates him beyond measure, but patience hard won over the years forces him to reluctantly accept his situation. Overall he can still manage, and if he is slower than before in anything he does, what of it? As long as Sansa stays by his side – and he knows that she will – what if his body gradually gives up on him? Sansa, who has started to gain matronly curves on her body and whose hair has turned greyer and lost some of its shine, but whose smile can still bring tears into his eyes. _Bloody old fool!_ Sandor curses silently, but can't turn his eyes away from his wife who is brushing her hair in their chamber, where they have retired for one more early evening.

She seems to sense his eyes on her as she turns and smiles at him and the emotion the sight of her evokes in him – the sight of the beautiful maiden who against all odds chose to spend her life with _him_, the scarred dog with a scarred soul – chokes him once again.


	37. The Prophecy

**Author's Notes: **A warning; reading this chapter may cause some distress, and for that I apologise. Yet you knew it was coming…

**_Summary:_** _Her voice breaks and she struggles to continue. He knows it is hard for her but he wants to hear the words one more time just the same. After a while she continues in a low and constrained voice._

* * *

**Sandor**

Sandor hears sounds of feet shuffling around his bed and knows them to be either Fira's or Santina's. He is half awake but doesn't want to alert them to the fact, knowing it to only make them fuss over him, force foul-tasting liquids down his throat and throw more blankets over him. He knows he is dying and that nobody can do anything about it – and why should they? The fatigue that racked him for a long time has gradually become worse and worse. When blood appeared in his urine he didn't take it as a good sign, nor the increased pain in his bones and especially in his loins and lower back. His weight loss only increased until by now he feels he is nothing but skin and bone. He hates feeling so weak. Luckily all the worst symptoms only appeared a few months ago, and the way he is going it will not be long before he can leave the body that has so cruelly betrayed him. Yet that is the way of the world; when their time is done the old die and the young move on.

Sandor had always imagined himself dying in a battlefield, his mortal body pierced with cold steel; a sword or an arrow or mayhap a warhammer doing the deed. Certainly not like this, in a warm featherbed surrounded by flesh of his flesh; his sons and daughters, his grandsons and granddaughters. Despite the lingering pain that has transformed his once powerful body to the shadow of its former self, he manages a weak smile when a flash of auburn hair flickers in front of his eye.

After a hard-fought battle of words in which Sansa stubbornly resisted the notion of him leaving her in such a cruel way, she finally accepted the truth that he was not going to get any better. She sent ravens to all their children to call them back home to see their father one last time.

* * *

Norr of course is already there, the powerful lord in his own right. Three sons he has, all strong and strapping lads, curiously resembling their grandsire more than their own father. They all are powerfully built, unbeatable in arms and all three have grey eyes and black hair.

Fira is a true queen as promised so long ago; Queen Fira of the Six Kingdoms. Aegor followed Stannis as the client king to High Queen Daenerys, and together they have five sons and daughter. She travelled home as fast as she could, taking only her youngest with her, a daughter much like her mother , grandmother and grand-grandmother; a beautiful auburn-haired blue-eyed maid.

By luck Orm is in Westeros, back from one of his extensive travels in the Far-East. He hasn't married but he has at least three children in his name, all in different countries by a different woman. He takes good care of them all, he assures, and Sandor has no reason to doubt his word. A few years back when he last visited they had a long talk and Orm admitted that soon, after a few more trips he too might be ready to come back home for good. Mayhap take his favourite woman and child with him, mayhap all three of them – or if none of them is willing, mayhap start anew in the land of his father and mother.

Santina has to everybody's surprise married, a wildling wise-man from the same family of seers whose words guided so much the life of her parents. The couple lives half the year in Hardhome, half in Clegane's Burrow, and only a short time ago Santina gave birth to their firstborn son. When Sandor first lays his half-lidded eyes on her as she sits by the fire in his sickroom and suckles the babe on her breasts, the sight reminds him of Sansa doing that with _their_ babes all those years ago so much that once again he feels tears filling his eyes. _Damned old fool, quit bawling already!_

Although Westerosi women usually don't have their own sigil, only that of their father and later their husband, Santina has broken the traditions there as well by choosing her own sigil. It is a diminutive bird on a field of grass, its tail jutting upwards. Undoubtedly she chose it after hearing her father calling her mother just that all her life, but before she did it, she asked first Sansa and then Sandor if they would mind. Of course they didn't, and once again they were reminded of the words of the prophecy and how all of them became reality even without active influence on their part.

And so here they are, all children and many grand-children, spending their days sitting by his bed telling him events from their lives and that of their children. Sandor listens patiently, grunting a few words here and there. He truly enjoys those times, but the best time for him is the one spent with his wife, his Sansa, his little bird.

* * *

"Sansa," he rasps one evening when everyone else has retired for the night and only Sansa rests on his bed, wrapped under his blankets. She usually sleeps in their marital bed across the room in order not to disturb him – or more likely, not to be disturbed by his intermittent coughing. Yet before Sandor falls into a milk of the poppy-induced sleep, she always comes and lies by his side, as she has done for decades.

"Yes, love?" She raises her head and Sandor can feel her eyes on him.

"What did the prophecy say again? The one I heard from the old hag?" Sansa shifts to a better position and recites him the words they both have learned by heart.

_There is fire in your soul, and in the soul of the one who will heal you, and a fire in her hair. You will find a great love; a love so strong it will change the fate of the realm. Yet your journey will not be easy; you have to fight for your love, as your love will fight for you. Three times you step up and rescue her, and she steps up three times to save you._

Sansa stops for a moment to brush a sweaty strand of hair away from his face.

_The lord of vast lands you shall be, the lands so great that it takes a rider three days to travel from one end to another. Two sons and two daughters will come from your seed. One son the new lord to your people, the other an explorer of faraway lands, He will discover new and mysterious worlds and his sigil is that of a wolfhound. One daughter the queen of many kingdoms, loved by her subjects, another a fierce warrior and a wise-woman. Her sigil is a pretty bird. _

Her voice breaks and she struggles to continue. He knows it is hard for her but he wants to hear the words one more time just the same. After a while Sansa continues in a low and constrained voice.

_You will amass riches of the land; crops from fields, furs from forests, fish from rivers – you and your family will not go wanting. This story will be told for thousands of years to come, about the Hound that came to the North. About he, who was kind to folk beyond the Wall and was true to them, as they were true to him._

Sandor sighs. All of it became true. The best part was about the woman with a fire in her hair, and the part about the great love he found.

"How big, bloody fool I was when I first heard it," he murmurs, his voice too weak for loud words. "I cursed her, I threw some measly coins on her table and walked away to drown myself in wine. Hah!" He is interrupted by a racking cough and it takes a while before he can continue. Sansa sobs silently next to him.

"Yet it all came true. All of it. But I wouldn't have cared about any of it except you. It was all about you, little bird, you know that, don't you?" He hardly recognises his own voice, so croaking it is.

"No, love, it was not about me. It was about _us._" She cries openly now, not even bothering to hide it. Sandor moves his hand feebly on his chest and she knows what he means – as she always does – and clutches it into her own. He squeezes it weakly.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you? Aye, I'll admit, it was about us." With that he feels tiredness sweeping over him and he succumbs to it, her little birds firm hold on his hand the last sensation he feels before he gives in to the darkness.


	38. EPILOGUE

**Author's notes: **Dear readers, this _is_ the end, finally! What started out as a holiday dribble, a curious attempt to write slightly differently in up-to-moment short spurts, something I envisaged to be over in a few weeks, took a life of its own… And here we are, holiday long past and almost forgotten, this fic grown into a 60,000 word monster sweeping the whole life and history of an ugly, snarling dog and a beautiful, strong-willed maiden.

I have enjoyed the ride and I hope so have you – I have especially relished the interactions with you, having many hilarious, inspiring and outright humble moments with your comments. Thousand thanks to you all and million hugs!

**_Summary:_** _On the shoulder of the growling dog perches a little bird, its beak fearlessly turned towards the bare teeth in the hound's wide-open mouth. On the feet of the big beast lies a cylinder, its right paw resting on it._

* * *

Lord Sandor Clegane, the First Warden of the Far-North, is buried in the little island in the shadow of the turret first built to honour the visit of a long past Targaryen Queen. His widow commissions a bronze sculpture of a fierce hound on his grave. The dog is a big black monster, with half its face marked with deep burn scars. The sculptor who fashions the statue wants to go easy on the face and smooth out references to his famous visage, but Lady Sansa Clegane of House Stark insists he depicts them in all their rawness and nobody goes against her will.

On the shoulder of the growling dog perches a little bird, its beak fearlessly turned towards the bare teeth in the hound's wide-open mouth. On the feet of the big beast lies a cylinder, its right paw resting on it. After the funeral ceremony Lady Sansa turns a piece of parchment into a roll and pushes it inside the cylinder, after which the smith from Clegane's Burrow seals it with red-hot iron to melt it in a way that ensures it can never be opened again. Nobody knows what is in that piece of parchment and Lady Sansa doesn't tell.

Ten years later Lady Sansa herself is buried under the statue of the hound and the little bird, in the space that was reserved for her at the time when the first grave was dug and memorial built over it.

Their sons and daughters, and _their_ sons and daughters, and all the descendants of the brave maid and the angry man establish themselves all over the North, Westeros and even across the Narrow Sea. They are kings and queens, adventurers, brothers and sisters of the Faith, warriors and healers. As times go by and marriages between the two strands of their houses take place, the names Stark and Clegane become so tightly bound with each other that people eventually forget that it was not always so: later generations believe that the Starks and Cleganes were always thus bound to each other with close ties of alliance.

The tomb becomes an important part of the new Far-North. In years to come people visit the burial site of the founders of that thriving semi-autonomic region to pay their respects to them. Enthusiastic lovers lay single flowers on the feet of the tiny bird, climbing on the shoulders of the hound, and couples hopeful for a babe of their own rub the paws of the vicious dog so that they shine permanently a gleaming coppery colour. It is told that this act alone is responsible for many happy families, just as happy as was the family of Lord and Lady Clegane.

* * *

Much, much later some youths, hell-bent on wanting to scandalise their elders, break the cylinder loose from under the paw of the statue only to be soon caught by the authorities. The most curious of them suggest that now that the cylinder is in their hands, maybe they should have a peak to see what's inside it? With some misgivings the rest of the group are talked over and so it is that the cylinder is beaten open after resting intact in the hound's paws for a good part of two centuries.

When the oldest of the team finally reaches inside it with trembling fingers, feels them touching something and carefully pulls the contents away, all they see is pieces of old frayed paper crumbling into dust in front of their eyes.

What words the parchment contained was never found out.

**THE END**


End file.
